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FLORENCE EBITIOI^. 



THE 



Poetical Works 

OF 

Ilizabeth Barrett Browning, 

Complete in One Volume. 

From the Last London Edition. 



ILLUSTRATED BY 



Sol. Evtinge, Jr., W. J. Hennessy, W. Thwajtes, 
AND C. G. Bush. 



NEW YORK; 

JAMES MILLER, PUBLISHER, 

779 Broadway. 



W\ 



HOfiTHfiiLSTSBBf 



-'< 



iit> 



(V 



Entered according to act of Congress, in tbo year 1B70, by 

JAMES MILLER. 
In the office o.fTtle-Librarian of Congrcss.axWaahinston. 

Trar 

28 i 



I0f ld42 I 

Accessions D 'visiter * 

T/i£ right of publishmg this hook in the United States hav- 
ing been liberally purchased by Mr. James Miller, it is hoped 
that there ivill be no interference with the same. 

Robert Browning. 

London, Ftbruary ao, 186a. 



^-■.•'^tsi>y^ 



DEDICATION. 



TO MY FATHER. 

When your eyes fall upon this page of dedication, and you start to see to 
whom it is inscribed, your first thought will be of the time far off when I was a 
child and wrote verses, and when I dedicated them to you, who were my public 
and my critic. Of all that such a recollection implies of saddest and sweetest to 
both of us, ic*\vo'jlJ become neither of ui to speak before the world : nor would it 
be possible for us to speaU of it to one another, with voices that did not falter. 
Enough, that what is in my heart when I write thus, will be fully known to yours. 

And my desire is that you, who are a witness how if this art of poetry had 
been a less earnest object to me, it must have fallen from exhausted hands before 
this day, — that you, who have shared with mc in things bitter and sweet, softening 
or enhancing them every day — that you, who hold with me over all sense of loss 
and transiency, one hope by one Name, — may accept the inscription of these 
volumes, the exponents of .a few years of an e.xistence which has been sustained 
and comforted by you ai well as giveru Somewhat more faint-hearted than I 
used to be, it is my fancy thus to seem to return to a visible personal dependence 
on you, ns if indeed I were a child again ; to conjure your beloved image be- 
tween myself and the public, so as to be sure of one smile, — and to satisfy my 
heart while I sanctify my ambition, by associating with the great pursuit of my 
life. Its tenderest and holiest affection. 

Your 

E. B. B. 




AD VERTISEMENT. 



This edition, including my earlier and later writings, I 
have endeavored to render as little unworthy as possible of 
the indulgence of the public. Several poems I would wil- 
lingly have withdrawn, if it were not almost impossible to 
extricate what has been once caught and involved in the 
machinery of the press. The alternative is a request to 
the generous reader that he may use the weakness of 
those earlier verses, which no subsequent revision has 
succeeded in strengthening, less as a reproach to the writer, 
than as a means of marking some progress in her other 

attempts. 

E. B. B. 



COKTEKTS. 



rAGE 

The Seraphim '5 

'1 lie Poet's Vow 29 

The Romaiint of Miirgret 3^ 

I^obel's Child 39 

A Romance of the Ganges 43 

An Island 4^ 

I'he Deserted Garden 5' 

The Soul' Travelling 32 

Sounds 55 

Night and llie Merry Man 37 

E;irtli and her Praisers 58 

The Virgi:i Mary to the Child J...... 61 

Memory and Hope 63 

A Portrait <J5 

Hector in the Garden ^i 

A Valediction ^7 

A Child's Thought of G.jd C8 

The Sleep 68 

Man and Nature (") 

A Sea-side Walk 69 

Tlie Sea-mew 7° 

My Doves 7° 

To Mary Russell Mitford i 1 her Garden 71 

The Exile's Return 7^ 

A Song against Singing 72 

'I'he Measure 75 

Cowper's Grave 73 

The Weakest Thing 75 

The Pet-Name 75 

To Flush, my Dog 7'' 

Sonnets : 

Bereavement 7^ 

Consolation 78 

The Soul's Expression 78 

The Seraph and the Poet 79 

On a Portrait of Wordsworth 79 

Past and Future 79 

Irreparableness 79 

Tears 80 

Grief 80 

Substitution 80 

Comfort 80 

Perplexed Music 81 

Work 81 

Futurity Si 



■XM co.vr/^.vrs. 

Sonnets (continued. ) pack 

The Two Sayings 8 i 

The Look 82 

'J'he Meaning of the Look 82 

A Thought lor a Lonely Death-Bed 82 

Work and Contemplation 83 

Pain in Pleasure 83 

An Apprehension 83 

Discontent 8^ 

Patience taught by Nature 84 

Cheerfulness taught by Reason 84 

Exaggeration 84 

Adequacy 84 

To George Sand. — A Desire 85 

To George Sand. — A Recognition 85 

The Prisoner 85 

Insufficiency 85 

Flush or Faunus ; 86 

Finite and Infinite 86 

Two Sketches 85 

Mountaineer and Poet 87 

Th'e Poet 87 

Hiram Powers' Greek Slave 87 

Life 88 

Love 88 

Heaven and Earth 88 

T"he Prospect 88 

Hugh Stuart Boyd — his Blindness 8g 

7-Iugh Stuart Boyd — his Death 89 

Hugh Stuart Boyd — Legacies 89 

L'-vfd Once go 

A Rhapsody of Life's Progress 91 

TNe House of Clouds 94 

CJtHrina to Camoens 95 

WiTie of Cyprus 97 

Th> Dead Pan 99 

Sl.eping and Watching 102 

Le-vsons from the Gor.se 102 

Tbe Claim 103 

A Sabbath Morning at Sea 103 

The Mask 104 

Stanz n 105 

The Young Queen 105 

Victoria's Tears .^ 106 

R-imance of the Swan's Nest 107 

A Man's Requirements 108 

Pt ^metheus Bound 109 

A Lament for Adonis 129 

B' rtha in the Lane 131 

That Day 1 34 

Li e and Love 134 

ri'» Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point 134 

A Child's Grave at Florence 138 

So lets from the Portuguese 141 

Pai vphrasc on Heine i5« 



CONTENTS. xiir 

PARAPHRASE ON THEOCRITUS— PAGF. 

The Cyclops •• • 153 

PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS^ 

Psyche Gazing on Cupid , 155 

Psyche Wafted by Zephyrui . . ^ •>...,,..... .4 156 

Psyche and Pan , 156 

Psyche propitiating Ceres .,.,...., , 157 

Psyche and the Eagle , 158 

Psyche and Cerberus 158 

Psyche and Proserpine 158 

Psyche and Venus 159 

Mercury carries Psyche to Olympus 159 

Marriage of Psyche and Cupid 159 

PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS — 

How Bacchus finds Ariadne Sleeping ^59 

How Bacchus comforts Ariadne .....,..,0.1........ ::i 

PARAPHRASE ON HESIOD — 

Bacchiis and Ariadne .« jo....,,.r»^ >, , . - ^.i-z 

PARAPHRASE ON EURIPIDES — 

Antistrophe .,.....•. »■ 162 

PARAPH.'!A3E3 CM HOMFR 

Hectar and Andromache 162 

The Daughters of Pandarus 164 

Another Version 165 

PARAPHRASE ON ANACREON — 

Ode to the Swallow 165 

Song of the Rose 165 

The Fourfold Aspect 166 

A Drama of E.\ile \ 167 

The Lost Bower 201 

The Romaunt of the Page 206 

The Lay of the Brown Rosary 211 

A Vision of Poets 219 

Crowned and Wedded 232 

Crowned and Buried 233 

A Flower in a Letter 236 

'I'o Bettine 238 

Stanza on the Death of Mrs. Henians 223 

My Heart and 1 239 

\V isdom Unapplied 240 

The Cry of the Human 24 1 

A Lay of the Early Rose 242 

Rhyme of the Duchess May 245 

The Lady's " Yes," 254 

L. E. L.'s Last Question 255 

A Child Asleep 256 

'I'he Poet and the Btu 256 

The Mourning Mother 258 

Culls on ihe Heart 259 

Human Life's Misery 260 

The Linle Friend 257 

Inclusions 262 

Insufficiency 261 

A Dead Rose 261 



xiv COA'TE.VTS. 

PAGR 

A Woman's Shortcoming!^ 202 

A Year's Spinning 26:) 

Change upon Change 263 

A Reed 263 

Casa Guidi Windows 2O4 

The Cry of the Children 299 

Napoleon III. in Italy 002 

The Dance ? 307 

A Tale of Villafranca 309 

A Conrt Lady 316 

An August Voice 310 

Christmas Gifts ^ 311 

Italy and the World 3:2 

A Curse for a Nation 314 

Confessions 318 

Aurora Leigh — 

first Book 321 

Second Book 336 

Third Book 358 

Fourth Book 377 

Fifth Rook 397 

Sixth Cook 4:8 

Seventh Hook 438 

Eighth Book 459 

Ninth Hook 480 

Lady (ieraldine's Courtship 495 

Lord Walter',s Wife 505 

Lutle Mat tie 507 

May's Love 508 

A Fa'se Step 508 

Void u: Law - 508 

Bianca among the Nightingales 509 

My Kate ■ 511 

A Song for the Ragged Schools of London : 512 

Amy's Cruelty 514 

The Best Thing in the World 515 

Where's Agnes ? 515 

De Profundis 517 

A Musical Instrument 519 

First New3 from Villafranca 521 

King Victor Emanuel entering Florence, April, i860 522 

Svvord of Castniccio Castrucani 523 

Summmg up in Italy 524 

" Died '■; Z" 

A Forced Recruit at Solferino <,_3 

Garibaldi s -j 

Only a Curl 5^:; 

A View across the Roman Campagna. 1861 i,jn 

Parting Lovers 5^7 

Mother and Poet 528 

Nature's Remorses 530 

The King's Gift 53a 

The North and the South jji 



POEMS. 



T H r. s E R A p II I ^r 



PART THE FIRST. 

It is the time of the Onicifixion ; nnri the 
miKela of lieavcii Iwive doi>.\:ti-.l toWnnU the 
earth, excc]it the two Sciaiihim, Aduv tlie 
Striinc 1111(1 Zerah the 1! -Isht One. 

Tlie place is tlie outer bide ol' the shut liea- 
vciUy gate. 

Ai/or, O SERAPH, pause no more ! 

Beside this gate of Heaven we stand 
alone. 
Zerah. Of Heaven 1 
Ador. Our brother hosts arc gone-^ 
Zerah. Are gone before. 
Ador. And the golden harps the 
angels bore 
To help the songs of their desire. 
Still burning from their bands of fire. 
Lie without touch or tone 
Upon the glass-sea shore. 
Zerah . Silent upon the glass-sea shore! 
Adar. There the shadow from the 

throne — 
Formless with infinity. 
Hovers o'er the crystal sea ; 

AwfiiUcr th.an light derived, 
And red with those primseval heats 

Whereby all life has lived. 
Zerah. Our visible God, our heavenly 

seats ! 
Ador. Beneath us sinks the pomp an- 
gelical. 
Cherub and seraph, powers and vir- 
tues, all, — 



The roar of whose descent has died 

To a still sound, as thunder into rairl. 
Immeasurable space spreads magnified 

With that thick life, along the plane 
The worlds slid out on. What a fall 
And eddy of wings innumerous.crossed 
By trailing curls that have not lost 
The glitter of the God-smile shed 
On every prostrate angel's head ! 
What gleaming up of hands that fling 
Their homage in retorted rays, 
From high instinct of worshipping. 

And habitude of praise. 
Zerah. Rapidly they drop below w. 
Pointed palm and wing and hair. 
Indistinguishable show us 
Only pulses in the air 
Throbbing with a fiery beat, 
As if a new creation heard 
Some divine and plastic word. 
And trembling at its new found being, 

Awakened at our feet. 
Ador. Zerah, do not wait for seeing. 
His voice, it is, that thrills us so 
As we our harpstrings, uttered Go, 
Behold ihe Holy in his woe— 
And all are gone, save thee and — 
Z-rah. Thee ! 

Ador. I stood the nearest to the 

throne 
In hierarchical degree. 
What time the Voice said Go. 
And whether I was moved alone 
By the storm-pathos of the tone 



THE SERA PUIM. 



\Vhich swept through Heaven the aheii 
name of ivoe. 

Or whether the subtle glory broke 
Through my strong and shielding 

winga, 
Bearing to my finite essence 
Incapacious of their presence. 
Infinite imaginings. 
None knoweth save the Throned who 

spoke ; 
But I, who, at creation, stood upright 
And heard the God-Breath move. 
Shaping the words that lightened, ' Be 
there light.' 

Nor trembled but with love, 
Now fell down shudderingly, 
My face upon the pavement whence I 

had towered, 
As if in mine immortal overpowered 
By God's eternity. 
Zerah. Let me wait ! — let me wait I — 
Ador. Nay, gaze not backward 
through the gate. 
God fills our heaven with God's own 
solitude 

Till all the pavements glow : 
His Godhead being no more subdued 
By itself, to glories low 

Which seraphs can sustain, 

What if thou, in gazing so, 

Should behold but only one 

AttribuLe, the veil undone — 

And that to which we dare to press 

Nearest, for its gentleness — 

Ay, His love I 
How the deep ecstatic pain 
Thy being's strength would capture ! 
Without language for the rapture, 
Without music strong to come 
And set the adoration free. 
For ever, ever, wouldst thou be 
Amid the general chorus dumb, 

God-stricken to seraphic agony ! 

Or, brother, what if on thine eyes 
In vision bare should rise 
The life-fount whence His hand did 
y gather 

With solitary force 
Our immortalities ! 
Str.^ightway how thine own would 
wither, 

Falter like a human breath. 

And shrink into a point like death, 

By gazing on its source ! 



My words have imaged dread. 
Meekly hast thou bent thine head. 
And dropt thy wmgs m languishment 
Overclouding foot and face ; 
As if God's throne were eminent 

Before thee, in the place. 
Yet not — not so, 

loving spirit and meek, dos; thou 

fulfil 

The Supreme Will, 

Not for obeisance but obedience. 

Give motion to thy wings. Depart from 
hence. 

The voice said ' Go.' 
Zerah. Beloved, I depart. 

His will is as a spirit within my spirit. 

A portion of the being I inherit. 

His will is mine obedience. I resemble 

A flame all undefiled though it trem- 
ble ; 

1 go and tremble. Love me, O be- 

loved ! 
O thou, who stronger art, 
And standest ever near the Infinite, 
Pale with the light of Light ! 
Love rae, beloved ! me, more newly 
made. 

More feeble, more afraid ; 
And let me hear with mine thy pinions 

moved, 
As close and gentle as the loving are. 
That love being near, heaven may not 
seem so far. 
Ador. I am near thee, and I love 
thee. 
Where I loveless, from thee gone. 
Love is round, beneath, above thee, 
God, the omnipresent One. 
Spread the wing, and lift the brov.-. 
Well-beloved, what fearest thou '' 
Zerah. I fear, I fear — 
Ador. What fear ? 

Zerah. The fear of earth. 

Ador. Of earth, the God-created and 
Cjod -praised 
In the hour of birth ? 
Whei^ every night, the moon in light 
Doth lead the waters, silver-faced ''. 
Where every day, the sun doth lay 
A r.aptnre to the heart of all 

The leafy and reeded pastoral. 
As if the joyo\is shout which burst 

From angel lips to see him first. 
Had left a silent echo in his ray ? 



THF. SliKAP/flM. 



y-tr-nh Of enrth~thc God-created 
and Cjod-curst, 
. Where man is, and the thorn. 

I ' Where sun and moon have borne 

No light to souls forlorn. 
"Where Eden's tree of life no more up- 

rears 
Its spiral leaves and fruitage, hut in- 

.stead 
The yew-tree bows its melancholy 

head, 
And all the undergrxsses kills and 

seres. 
Adoy. Of earth the weak, 
Made and imm.-.de, 
Where men that faint, do strive for 

crowns that fade '.' 
Where, having won the profit which they 

seek, 
They lie beside the sceptre and the 

gold 
With fleshless hands that cannot wield 

or hold. 
And the stars shine in their \mwinking 

eyes ? 
Zerah. Of earth the bold : 

Where the blind matter wrings 
An awful potence out of impotence. 
Bowing the spiritual things 

To the things of sense. 
'V> here the human will replies 
With ay and no. 
Because the human pulse is quick or 

slow. 
Where Love succumbs to Change, 
With only his own memories, for re- 
venge. 
And the fearful mystery — 

Ador. Called Death ? 

Zerah. Nay, death is fearful— but 

who saith 
'To die,' is comprehensible. 
What's fcarfuller, thou knovvest well. 
Though the utterance be not for thee. 
Lest it blanch thy lips from glorj — 
Ay ! the cursed thing that moved 
A shadow of ill, long times ago, 
Acrois our heaven's own shining floor. 
And when it vanished, some who were 
On thrones of holy empire there, 
Did reign — w.;re seen — were — never 

more. 
Come nearer, O boloved 1 



Ador. I nni near thco. Didst tluv.i 
bear thee 
Ever to this earth ? 
Zerah. Before. 

When thrilling from His hand along 
Its lustrous path with spheric song. 
The earth was deathless, sorrowless. 
Unfearing, then, pure feet might 

press 
The grasses brightening with their 

feet. 
For God's own voice did mi.v its 

soun d 
In a solemn confluence oft 
With the rivers' flowing round 
And the life-tree's waving soft. 
Beautiful new earth, and strange ! 
Ador, Hast ihou seen ''; since — the 

change ? 
Zerah. Nay, or wherefore should 1 
fear 
. To look upon it now ? 
1 have beheld the ruined things 
Only in depicturings 
Of angels from an earthly mission,- - 
Strong one, even upon thy brow. 
When, with task completed, given 
Back to us in that transition, 
I have beheld thee silent stand, 
Abstracted in the seraph band. 
Without a smile in heaven. 
Ador. Then thou wert not one of 
those 
Whom the loving Father cho.se 
In visionary pomp to sweep 
O'er Judaea's grassy places. 
O'er the shepherds and the sheep, 
Though thou art so tender ? — 

dimming 
All the stars exxept one star, 
With their brighter kinder faces, 
And using heaven's own tune in 
hymning. 
While deep response from earth's own 
mountains ran, 
' Peace upon earth — goodwill to man." 
Zerah. "Glory to God!" — I said 
Amen afar. 
And those who from that earthly mis- 
sion are. 
Within mine ears have told 
That the seven everla-sting Spirits did 
hold 



TIIIC SERAPHIM. 



With such a sweet and prodigal con- 
straint, 
The meaning yet the mystery of the 

song, 
What tmie they sang it, on their natures 

strong ; 
That, gazing down on earth's dark stead- 
fastness, 
And speaking the new peace in promises. 
The love and pity made their voices faint 
Into the low and tender music, keeping 
The place in heaven, of what on earth is 
weeping, 
Ador. Peace upon earth I Come down 

to it. 
Zerah. Ah me 1 

I hear thereof uncomprehendingly. 
Peace where the tempest — where the 

sighing is— 
And worship of the idol, 'stead of HLs? 
Ador. Yea, peace, where He is. 
Zerah. He ! 

Say it again. 

Ador. Where He !s. 

Zerah, • Can it be 

That earth retains a tree 
Whose leaves, like Eden foliage, can be 

swayed 
By the breathing of His voice, nor 
shrii.k and fade ? 
Adar. There is a tree ! — it hath no 
leaf nor root ; 
Upon it hangs a curse for all its fruit : 
Its shadow on His head is laid. 
For He, the crowned Son, 
Has left his crown and throne, 
Walks earth i.i Adam's clay. 
Eve's snake to bruise and slay— 
Zerah. Walks earth in clay ? 
Ador. And walking in the clay which 
He created. 
He through it shall touch death. 
What do I utter ? what, conceive '{ Did 

breath 
Of demon howl it in a blasphemy ? 
Or was it mine own voice, informed, 

dilated 
By the seven confluent Spirits?— Speak — 

answer me 1 
Who said man's victim was his deity ? 
Zerah. Beloved, beloved, the word 
came forth from thee. 
Thine eycj are rolling a tempestuous 
light 



Above, belov/, around, 
As putting thunder-questions without 
cloud, 

Reverberate without sound, 
To universal nature's depth and height. 
The tremor of an inexpressive thought 
Too self-amazed to shape itself aloud, 
O'erruns the awful curving of thy lips ; 
And while thine hands are stretched 
above 
As newly they had caught 
Some lightning from the 'ihrone — or 
showed the Lord 

Some retributive sword — 
Thy brows do alternate with wild eclipse 
And radiance^with contra.sted wrath 
and love — 
^ God had called thee to a seraph's 
part. 
With a man's quailing heart. 
Ador. O heart— O heart of man I 
O ta'en from human clay, 
To be no seraph's but Jehovah's 
own I 
Made holy in the taking, 
And yet unseparate 
From death's perpetual ban. 
And human feelings sad and passionate ! 
Still subject to the treacherous forsaking 
Of other hearts, and its own steadfast 

pain. 
O heart of man— of God I which God 

hath ta'en 
From out the dust, with its humanity 
Mournful and weak yet innocent around 

it. 
And bade its many pulses beating lie 
Beside that incommunicable stir 
Of Deity wherewith He interwound it. 
O man I and is thy nature so defiled. 
That all that holy Heart's devout law- 
keeping, 
And low pathetic beat in deserts wild. 
And gushings pitiful of tender weeping 
For traitors who consigned it to sucli 

woe — 
That all could cleanse thee not — without 

the flow 
Of blood — the life-blood(^///j — .and 

streaming so ^ • 

O e.arth the thundercleft, windshaken 1 

where 
The louder voice of " blood and blood " 
doth li.ie — 



THE SERAPHIM. 



Haxt thou an altar for this sacrifice ? 
O heaven — O vacant throne ! 

crowned hierarchies, that wear yor.r 

crown 

When His is put away ! 
Are ye unshamed, that ye cannot dim 
YouraUen brightness to be liker Him, — 
Assume a human passion — and down- 
lay 
Vour sweet secureness for congenial 

fears — 
And teach your cloudless ever-burning 
eyes 
The mystery of His tears ? 
Zernh. "I am strong, I am strong ! 
Were I never to see my heaven again, 

1 would wheel to earth like the tempest 

rain 
Which sweeps there with an exultant 

sound 
To lose its life as it reaches the ground. 
I am strong, I am strong ! 
Away from mine inward vision swim 
The shining seats of my heavenly 

birth— 
I see but His, I see but Him — 
The Maker's steps on His cruel cartli. 
AViU the bitter herbs of earth grow 

sweet 
To me, as trodden by His feet? 
Will the vexed, accurst humanity. 
As worn by Him, begin to be 
A blessed, yea, a sacred thing. 
For love, and awe, and ministering? 

I am strong, I am strong ! 
By our angel ken shall we survey 
His loving smile through his woeful 

clay? 
r am swift, I am strong — 
The love is bearing me along. 

Atlor. One love is bearing us along. 



PART THE SECOND. 



Mid air, jiTtnve .TmioRa. Ador anil Ztrnh A 
'Itll. apart from tlio visible Angulic Hcwts. 



Ar/or. Beloved ! dost thou sec ? — 
Zerah. Thee, — thee. 



Thy burning eyes already are 
Grown w;ld and mournful as a star 
Whose occupation is for aye 
To look upon the place of clay 
Whereon thou lookcst now ! 
The crown is fainting on thy brow 
To the likeness of a cloud — 
The forehead's self a little bowed 
From its aspect high and holy, 
As it would in meekness meet 
Some seraphic melancholy. 
Thy very wings that lately flung 
An outline clear, do flicker here. 
And wear to each a shadow hung 

Dropped across thv feet. 
In these strange contrasting glooms 
Stagnant with the scent of tombs. 
Seraph faces, O my brother. 
Show awfully to one another. 
Adnr. Dost thou see ? 
Zerah. Even so — I see 

Our empyreal company ; 

Alone the memory of their bright 
ness 
Left in them, as in thee: 

The circle upon circle, tier en tier — 
Piling earth's hemisphere 
With heavenly infiniteness; 
Above us and around. 

Straining the blue horizon like a bow : 

Their songful lips divorced from all 
sound ; 

A darkness gliding down their silvery 
glances,— 

Bowing their steadfast solemn counte- 
nances. 

As if they heard God speak, and could 
not glow. 
Aior. Look downward ! dost thou 

see >. 
Zirah. And wouldst thou press thii 
vision on my words i 

Doth not earth speak enough 

Of change and of undoing. 

Without a seraph's witness ? Oceans 
rough 

With tempest, pastoral swards 

Displaced by fiery deserts, mountains 
ruing 

The bolt fallen yesterday. 

That shake their piney heads, as who 
would say 
' We are too beautiful for our decav.' 



t;ik si:kap:iim. 



Shall seiaphs speak of these thi^3^ ? Let 
alone 
Earth, to her earthly moan. 
Voice of all things. Is there no moan 

but hers ? 
Ador. Hearest thon the attestation 
Of the roused Universe, 
Like a desert lion shakmg 
Dews of silence from its mane ? 
With an irreprcssive passion 

Uprising at once, 
Rising up and forsaking 
Its solemn state in the circle of suns 
To attest the pain 
Of Him who stands (O patience sweet!) 
In his own hand-prints of creation, 

With hnman feet? 
Voice of all things. Ls there no moan 

bat ours ? 
Zcrah. Forms, Spaces. Motions wide, 

O meek, insensate things, 
O congregated matters ! who inherit 
Instead of vital powers, 
Impulsion:;, God-supplied ; 
Instead of influent spirit, 
A clear informing beauty — 
Instead of creature-duty. 
Submission calm as rest ! 
Lights, without feet or wings. 
In golde:i courses sliding ! 
Glooms, stagnantly subsiding, 
Who-i^ luitroa; heart away was prest 
Into the argent stars ! 
Ye crystal, lirmamcntal bais, 
'I'hat hold th2 skyey waters free 
From tide or tempest's ecstasy ! 
Airs universal ! thunders lorn. 
That wait yonr lightnings in cloud- 
cave 
Hewn out by the winds ! O brave 
And subtle Elements! the Holy 
H-ith charged me by your voice 
with folly.* 
Enough, the mystic arrow leaves its 

wound. 
Return ye to yonr silences inborn, 
Ox to your inarticulated sound ! 
A:ior. Zerah. 
/Cerah. Wilt /A(/?< rebuke ? 
God hath rebuked me, brother. — I am 
weak. 

• •• lll.s iiii:ji:1s Ik i::i:irgc(l with fiillj."— A,'., 



Ador. Zerah, my brother Zer.ih !~^. 
could 1 speak 
Of thee, 'twould be of love to thee. 

Ze7-ali. Thy loo!c 

Is fixed on earth, as mine upon thy face ! 
Where shall I seek Him ? — 

I have thrown 
One look upon earth — but one — 
Over the blue mountain-lines. 
Over the forests of palms and pines ; 
Over the liarvest-lands golden ; 
Over the valleys that fold in 
The gardens and vines — 

He is not there I 
All these are unworthy 
His footsteps to bear ; 

Before which, bowing down 
I would fain quench the stars of my 
crown 

In the dark of the earthy 
Where shall I seek Him ? 

No reply ? 
Hath language left thy lips, to place 

Its vocal in thine eye? 
Ador, Ador ! are we come 
To a double portent, that 
Dumb matter grows articulate 
And songful .spirits dumb? 
Ador, Ador ! 
Ador. I constrain 

The passion of my silence. None 
Of those places gazed upon 
Are gloomy enow to fit His pain. 
Unto Him whose forming word 
Gave to Nature flower and sward, 
S!ie hath given back again, 
For the myrtle, the thorn ; 
For the sylvan calm, the human scorn. 
Still, still, reluctant Seraph, gaze beneath! 

There is a city 

Zerah. Temple and tower. 

Palace and purple would droop like a 
flower, 

(Or a cloud at our breath) 
If He neared in His state 
The outermost gate. 
Ador. Ah me, not so 

In the .state of a King, did the victim go ! 
And Th.oii who hangest mute of speecli 
'Twi.vt heaven and earth, with fore- 
head yet 

St.ained by the bloody sweat 

God ! man ! Thou hast foregone ihy 
throne in each ! 



riiK SF.r:Ariint. 



/.crah. Thine eyes behold Him ? 

Aiior. Yea, below. 

Track the gazlnj of mine eyes, 

Naming God within thine heart 

That its weakness may depart 

And the vision rise. 
Seest thou yet, beloved? 
Zerah. I sec 

Beyond the city, crosses three. 
And mortals three that hang thereon, 
'Ghast and silent to the sun : 
And round them blacken and welter 
and press 
Staring multitudes, whose father 
Adam wa; — whose brows are dark 
With his Cain's corroded mark ; 
Who curse with looks. Nay — let 

me rather 
Turn unto the wilderness. 
Ador. Turn not. God dwells with 

men. 
Zerah. Above 

He dwells with angels ; and they love. 
(J I'l these love ? With the living's pride 
They stare at those who die, — who hang 
In their sight and die. They bear the 

streak 
Of the crosses' shadow, black not wide, 
'\:o fall on their heads, as it swerves aside 
When the victims' pang 
Make; the dry wood creak, 
Ador. The cross — the cross ! 
Zerah. A woman kneels 

The mid cross under — 
With white lips asunder. 
And motion on each : 
They throb, as she feels. 
With a sp.asm, not a speech ; 
And her lids, close as sleep. 
Are less calm — for the eyes 
Have made room there to weep 
Drop on drop — 
j^dor. Weep? Weep blood. 

All women, all men ! 
He sweated it. He, 
For your pale womanhood 
And base manhood. Agree, 
That these water-tears, then. 
Are vain, nocking like laughter! 
Weep blood ! — Shall the flood 
f)f salt curses, whose foam is the dark- 
ness, on roll 
forward, on, from the .strand of the 
storm-beaten years. 



And b.ack from the rocks of the horrid 

hereafter. 
And up, in a coil, from the present'^ 

wrath-spring. 
Yea, down from the windows of ]Iea- 

ven opening, — 
Deep calling to deep as thej' meet on 
His soul, — 

And men weep only tears? 
Zerah. Little drops in the lapse ! 
And yet, Ador, perhaps 
It is all that they can. 
Tears ! the lovingest man 
Has no better bestowed 
Upon man. 
Ador. Nor on God. 

Zerah. Do .all givers need gifts? 
If the Giver .said 'Give,' the first motion 

would slay 
Our Immortals; the echo would ruin 

away 
The same worlds which he made. Why, 
what angel uplifts 

Such a music, so clear, 
it may seem in God's car 
Worth more than a woman's hoarsfe 

weeping ? And thus. 
Pity tender as tears, I above thee would 

speak. 
Thou woman that weepest ! weep un- 

scorned of us ! 
I, the tearless and pure, am but loving 
and weak. 
Ador. Speak low, my brother, low, — 
and not of love. 
Or human or angelic I Rather .stand 
I'.efore the throne of tliat Supreme above. 
In whose infinitude the secrecies 
Of thine own being lie hid, and lift thine 

hand 
Exultant, saying 'Lord God 1 am wise!'--— 
Than utter here, ' I love.' 

Zerah. And yet thine eyes 

Do utter it. They melt in tender light — 
The tears of Heaven. 

Ador. Of Heaven. Ah rac ! 

Zerah. Ador! 

Adcr. Say on. 

Zerah. The crucified are three. 

Beloved, they are unlike. 
Ador. Unlike. 

Zerah. l'"or one 

Is as a man who sinned, and still 
Doth wear the wicked will — 



■HIE SF.KAFJ/IM. 



The hard malign life-enctgy. 
Tossed outward, in. the parting soul's 

disdain, 
On brow and lip that cannot change 
again. 
yldor. And one — 
Zerah. Has also sinned. 

And yet, (O marvel !) doth the spirit-wind 
Blow white those waters ? — Death upon 
his face 
Is rather shine than shade, 
A tender shine by looks beloved made. 
He seemeth dying in a quiet place, 
And less by iron wounds in hands and 

feet 
Than heart-brcke by new joy too sud- 
den and sweet. 
Ador. And one! — 
Zerah. And ONE — 

Ador. Why dost thou pause >. 

Zerah. God ! God ! 

Spirit of my spirit ! who movest 
Through seraph veins in burning deity, 
To light the quenchless pulses ! — 

Ador. ■ But hast trod 

The depth of love in thy peculiar nature ; 
And not in any Thou hast made and 

lovest 
In narrow scaph hearts ! — 

Ze.nh. Above, Creator! 

Within, upholder! 

Ador. And below, below. 

The cre.iture's and the upholden's saci i- 
ficc ! 

Zerah. Why do I pause ?■ 

Ador. There is asileiuness 

That answers thee enow ; 
That, like a brazen sound 
Excluding others, doth ensheathe tis 

round : 
Hoar it ! It is not from the visible skies 

Though they are very still. 
Unconscious that their own dropped 

dews express 

The light of heaven on every earthly hill. 

Jt IS not from the hdls ; though calm 

and bare 

They, since the first ci-eation, 

ITirough midnight clouci or morning's 

glittering air 
Or the deep deluge blindness, toward 

the place 
Whence thrilled the mystic v.-ord's crea- 
tive grace, 



And whence again shall come 
The word that uncreates : 
Have lift their brows in voiceless expec- 
tation. 
It is not from the places that entomb 
Man's dead — though common Silenoc 

there dilates 
Her soul to grand proportions, worthily 
To fill l.te's vacant room. 
Not there — not there ! 
Not yet within those chambers lieth He, 
A dead One in His living world! His 

south 
And west winds blowing over earth and 

.sea ; 
And not a breath on that creating 
Mouth ! 
But now, — a silence keeps 
(Not death's, nor sleep's) 
The lips whose whispered word 
Might roll the thunders round reverferat- 
cd. 
Silent art Thou, O my Lord, 
Bowing down Thy stricken head ! 
Fearest Thou, a groan of thine 
Would make the pulse of thy creation 

fail 
As thine own pulse? — would rend the 

veil 
Of visible things, and let the flood 
Of the unseen Light, the essential God, 
Rush in to whelm the undivineV — 
Thy silence, to my thinking, is aa dread! 
Zerah. (.) silence ! 
Ador. Doth it .say to thee the .n.^me. 
Slow-learning Seraph ? 

Zerah. 1 have learnt. 

Ador. The flame 

Perishes in thine eyes. 

Zerah. He opened His — 

And looked. 1 cannot bear — 
Ador. Their agony? 

Zerah. Their love. God's depth is in 
then. 

From his brows 
White, terrible in meeknes>, didst thou 
see 

The uplifted eyes unclose? 
He is God, seraph ! Look no more on 

me, 
O God ; 1 am not God. 

Ador. The loving is 

Sublimed within them by the sorrowful. 
In heaven we could suslUin them. 



THE SF.RAI-IIIM. 



Zerah. ITcnveii i; dull. 

Mine Ador, to man's c.irlh. Tlie light 
that burns 
]n llnent, refluent motion, 
Along the crystal ocean ; 
The springing of the golden harps be- 
tween 
'Ihe bowery wings, in foimtains of sweet 

soinid ; 
The winding, wandering music that re- 
turns 
Upon itself, e.vultingly self-bound 
In the great spheric round 
Of everlasting praises : 
The God-thoughts in our midst that in- 
tervene. 
Visibly flashing from the supreme throne, 

Full in seraphic faces. 
Till each astonishes the other, grown 
More beautiful with worship and de- 
light ! 
My heaven ! my home of heaven ! my 

infinite 
Heaven-choirs ! what arc yc to this 

dust and death. 
This cloud, this cold, these te.ars, this 

failing breath. 
Where God's immortal love now issueth 
In this man's woe ? 
Ador. His eyes arc very deep yet 

calm — 
Zerah. No more 

On ;«£' Jehovah-man — 

Ador. Calm-deep. They show 

A pas.sion which is tranquil. They are 

seeing 
No earth, no heaven : no men that slay 
and curse — 
No seraphs that adore. 
Their gaze is on the invisible, the 

dread — 
The things we cannot view or thiiiU or 

speak. 
Because we arc too happy, or too weak; 
The sea of ill, for which the universe 
With all its piled space, can find no 

shore. 
With all its life, no living foot to tread. 
But He, accomplished in Jehovah-being, 
Sustains the gaze adown. 
Conceives the vast despair. 
And feels the billowy griefs come up to 
drown, 



Nor fears, nor faints, nor fails till all lie 
finished. 
Zerah. Thus, do I find thee thus? My 
undiminished 
And undiminishable God ! — My God! 
The echoes are still tremulous along 
The heavenly mountains, of the latest 

song 
TTiy manifested glory swept abroad 
In rushing past our lips ! They echo aye 

"Creator, Thou art strong I — 
Creator, Thou art blessed over all." 
By what new utterance shall I now re- 
call, 
Unteaching the heaven-echoes? Dare 1 

say, 
"Creator, Thou art feebler than 'J'hy 

work ! 
Creator, Thou art sadder than thy crea- 
ture ! 
A worm, and not a man. 
Yea, no worm — but a curse ?" 
I dare not, .so, mine heavenly phrase re- 
verse. 
Albeit the piercing thorn and thistle-fork 

(Whose se'ed disordered ran 
From Eve's hand trembling when the 

curse did reach her) 
Be garnered darklier in thy soul ! the 

rod 
That smites Thee never blossoming, and 

Thou, 
Grief-bearer for thy world, with un- 
kinged brow — 
I leave to men their song of Ichabod ! 
I have an angel-tongue — I know but 
praise. 
Ador. Hereafter shall the blooil- 
bought captives raise 
The passion-song of blood. 

Zerah. And luc, extend 

Our holy vacant hands towards the 

Throne, 
Crying " We have no music !" 
Ador. Rather, blend 

Both musics into one ! 
The .sanctities and sanctified above 
Shall each to each, with lifted looks se- 
rene, 
Their shining faces lean. 
And mi.\ the adoring breath 
And breathe the full thanksgiving. 

Zerah. But the love- 

The love, mine Ador ! 



THE SERAPHIM 



Ador. Do we love not ? 

Zerah. Yea, 

But not a.; man shall ! not with life for 

death, 
New-throbbing through the startled be- 
ing ! not 
With strange astonished smiles, that 

ever may 
Gush passionate like tears, and fill their 

place : 
Nor yet with speechless memories of 

what 
Earth's winters v/erc, cnverduring the 
green 
Of every heavenly palm 
Whose windless, shadeless calm 
Moves only at the breath of the Unseen. 
Oh, not with this blood on us — and this 

face, — 
Still, haply, pale with sorrow that it bore 
In our behalf, and tender evermore 
With nature all our own, upon us gaz- 

Nor yet with these forgiving liands up- 
raising 
Their unreproachful wounds, alone to 

bless ! 
Alas, Creator ! shall we love Thee less 
Than mortals shall ? 

Ador. Amen ! so let it be. 

We love in oiir proportion — to the bound 
Thine infinite our finite, set around. 
And that is finitely, — Thou, infinite 
And worthy infinite love ! And our 

delight 
Is watching the dear love poured out to 

Thee, 
From ever fuller chalice. Bles.sed they, 
Who love Thee more than we do ! 

blessed we. 
Viewing that love which .shall exceed 

even this. 
And winning in the sight, a double bliss, 
' For all so lost in love's supremacy ! 
The bliss is better. Only on the sad 

Cold earth there are who say 
It seemeth better to be great than glad. 
'J'he bliss is better 1 Love Him more, 

O man. 
Than sinless seraphs can. 
' Zcrah. Yea, love Him more. 

I'oiccs of the iiji^clic multitude. 

Yea, more ! 



Ador. The loving word 

Is caught by those from whom we stand 

apart : 
For Silence hath no deepness in her 

heart 
Where love's low name low breathed 

would not be heard 
By angels, clear as thunder. 
Ang^eiic voices. Love him more! 
Ador. Sweet voices, swooning o'er 
The music which ye make ! 
Albeit to love there were not ever given 
A mournful sound when uttered out 

of heaven. 
That angel-sadness ye would fitly take. 
Of love, be silent now ! we gaze adown 
Upon the incarnate Love who wears 
no crown. 
Zerah. No crown ! the woe instead 
Is heavy on His head. 
Pressing inward on His brain. 
With a hot and clinging pain. 
Till all tears are prest away. 
And clear and calm His vision may 
Peruse the black abyss. 
No rod, no sceptre is 
Holden in His fingers pale : 
They close instead upon the nail. 

Concealing the sharp dole — 
Never stirring to put by 
The fair hair peaked w t'l blood. 
Drooping forward from the rood 

Helplessly — heavily — 
On the cheek that wa.\eth colder. 
Whiter ever, — and the shoulder 
Where the government was laid. 
His glory made the Heavens afraid; 
Will He not unearth this cross from its 

hole? 
His pity makes His piteous state : 
Will He be uncompassionate 
Alone to his proper soul ? 
Yea, will He not lift up 
His lips from the bitter cup, 
His brows from the dreary weight, 
His hands from the clenchin;j 
cross — 
Crying ' My Father, give to mc 
Again the joy I had with Thee, 
Or ere this earth was made for los.s T 
No stir — no sound — 
The love and woe being interuound 
He cleaveth to ;ho woe ; 



■IMF. SFMAPIIIM. 



And putteth forth heaven's strength be- 
low — 

To bear. 
Ador. And that creates His anguish 
now, 
Which made His glory there. 
/.erah. Shall it indeed be so ? 
Awake, thou Earth ! behold ! 
Thou, uttered forth of old 
In all thy lit'e-emotion. 
In all thy vernal noises ; 
In the rollings of thine ocean. 
Leaping founts, and rivers run- 
ning ; 
In thy woods' prophetic heaving 
Ere the rains a stroke have given ; 
In thy winds' exultant voices 
When they feel the hills anear : 
In the firmamental sunning, 
-A-nd the tempest which rejoices 
Thy full heart with an awful cheer ! 

Thou, uttered forth of old 

And with all thy musics, rolled 

In a breath abroad 

By the breathing God ! 

Awake ! He is here ! behold I 

Even thou — 

Beseems it good 
To thy vacant vision dim. 
That the deathly ruin should. 
For thy sake, encompass Him ? 
That the Master-word should lie 
A mere silence— while His own, 

Processive harmony — 
The faintest echo of Hi^ lightest to:ic 
j,s sweepmg in a choral triumph by V 
Awake ! emit a cry ! 
And say, albeit used 
From Adam's ancient years 
To falls of acrid tears. 
To frequent sighs imloosed. 
Caught back to press again 
On bpsoms zoned with pain — 
To corses still and sullen 
The shine and music dulling 
With closed eyes and eai-s 
That nothing sweet can enter— 
Commoving thee no less 
With that forced quietness. 
Than the earthquake in thy cen- 
tre— 
Thou hast not learnt to be.ar 
This new divine desoair! 
These tears that sink into thee. 



These dying eyes that view thee. 
This dropping blood from lifted 

rood. 
They darken and undo thee ! 
Thou canst not, presently, sustain this 
corse ! 
Cry, cry, thou ha.st not force ! 
Cry, thou w'ouldst fainer keep 
Thy hopeless charnels deep — 
Thyself a general tomb — 
Where the first and second Death 
Sit gazing face to face 
And mar each other's breath. 
While silent bones through all the place, 
'Neath sun and moon do faintly glisten. 

And seem to he and listen 
For the tramp of the coming Doom. 

Is it not meet 
That they who erst the Eden fruit did 
eat. 

Should champ the ashes ? 
That they who wrapt them in the thun- 
der-c'o id, 

^ hoald wear it as a shroud. 
Perishing by its flashes? 
That they who vexed the lion, shoulc 
be rent'? 

Cry, cry — ' I will sustain my punish 

ment. 
The sin being mine ! but take away 

f om me 
This visioned Dread — this Man — 
this Deity.' 
The Earth. I have gro.ancd — I have 
travailed — 
I am weary — 
I am blind with mine own grief, and 

cannot sec, 
As clear-eyed angels can. His agony : 
And what I see I also can sustain. 
Because His power protects me from 

His pain. 
I have groaned — I have travailed — I 

am dreary. 
Hearkening the th.'ck sobs of my child- 
ren's heart : 

And can I say 'Depart' 
To that Atoner making calm and free ? 

Am I a God as He, 
To lay down peace and power as will- 
ingly ? 

Adnr. He looked for some to pity. 
There is none. 
All pity is within Him, and not for Him ; 



THE SERAPHIM. 



His earth Is iron under Him, and o'er 
Him 

His skies are brass : 
His seraphs cry 'Alas' 
With liallelujah voice that cannot weep ; 
And man, for whom the dreadful work 

is done 

Scorn/ul zwiccsfrom the Earik. If 

verily this be the Eternal's son — 
Ador. Thou hearest : — man is grate- 
ful ! 
Zerah. Can I hear, 

Nor darken into man nor cease for ever 
My seraph-smile to wear ? 

Was it for such. 
It pleased Him to overleap 
His glory with His love, and sever 
From the God-light and the throne 
And all angels bowing down, 
From whom His every look did 

touch 
New notes of joy from the unworn 

string 
Of an eternal worshipping ! 
For such He left His heaven ? 
There, though never bought by 
blood 
And tears, we gave Him gratitude ! 
We loved Him there, though un- 
forgive;i ! 
Ado}-. The light is riven 
Above, around, 
And down in lurid fragments flung, 
That catch the moimtain-peak and 
stream 

With momentary gleam. 
Then perish in the water and the ground. 
River and waterfall. 
Forest and wilderness, 
Mountain and city, are together wrun^ 
Into one shape, and that is shapeless- 
ness ; 

The darkness stands for all. 
Zerah. The pathos hath the day un- 
done : 
The death-look of His eyes 
Hath overcome the sun, 
And made it sicken in its narrow skies. 
Ador. Is it to death ? He dieth. 
Zerah. Through the dark. 

He stdl, He only, is discerniLlei— 
The naked hands and f;ct transfi.xcd 
stark, 



The countenance of patient anguish 
white. 

Do make themselves a light 
More dreadful than the glooms which 

round them dwell, 
And therein do they shine. 

Ador. God ! Father-God ! 

Perpetual Radiance on the radiant 

throne ! 
Uplift the lids of inward Deity, 
Flashing abroad 
Thy burning infinite! 
Light up this dark, where there is 

nought to see, 
E.xcept the unimagined agony 
Upon the sinless forehead of the Son. 
Zerah. God, tarry not! Behold, 
enow 
Hath He wandered as a stranger. 
Sorrowed as a victim. Thou 
Appear for Him, O Father ! 
Appear for Him, Avenger! 
Appear for Him, just One and holy One, 

For He is holy and just ! 
At once the darkneas and dishonor 

rather 
To the ragged jaws of hungry chaos 
rake. 
And hurl aback to ancient dust 
These mortals that make blasphemies 
With their made breath ! this earth 
and skies 
That only grow a little dim. 
Seeing their curse on Him ! 
But Him, of all forsaken. 
Of creature and of brother. 
Never wilt Thou forsake! 
Thy living and Thy loving cannot 

slacken 
'J'heir firm essential hold upon each 

other — 
And well Thou dost remember how His 

part 
Was still to lie upon Thy breast, and be 
Partaker of the light that dwelt in Thee 

Ere sun or seraph shone ; 
And how while silence trembled round 

the throne, 
Thou countedst by the beatings of His 

heart, 
The moments of Thine own eternity ! 

Awaken, 
O ri^ht Hand with the lightnings' 



THE SE 


".APIIIM. 27 


Again gather 


My God, my God I whe^e is it? Doth 


His glory to thy glory ! What cstratig- 


that curse 


er— 


Reverberate Fpare us, seraph or uni- 


What ill supreme in evil, can be thrust 


verse ? 


Between the faithful Father and the 


//t'Jiath forsaken Him. 


.Son? 


Ador. He cannot fail. 


Appear for Him, Father ! 


Angel voices. We faint — we droop — 


Appear for Him, Avenger 1 


Our love doth tremble like fcar^- 


Appear for Him, just One and holy 


Voices of Fallen Angels: from the 


One I 


Eartli, Do wo prevail ? 


For He is holy and just. 


Or are we lost?— Hath not the ill v.c 


Ador. Thy face, upturned toward 


did 


the throne, is dark— 


Been heretofore our good ? 


Thou hast no answer, Zerah. 


Is it not ill that One, all sinless, should 


Zerah. _ No reply. 


Hang heavy with all curses on a cross? 


O unforsaking Father ?— 


Nathless, that crj.' — with huddled 


Ado,: Mark I 


faces hid 


Instead of downward voice, a cry 


Within the empty graves which men 


Is uttered from beneath 1 


did scoop 


Zerah. And by a sharper sound than 


To hold more damned dead, we shud- 


death, 


der through 


Mine immortality is riven. 


What shall exalt us or undo, — 


The heavy darkness which doth tent 


Our triumph, or— our loss, 


the sky, 


I'oicefroin the Cross. It Is FINISHED, 
Zerah. Hark, again 1 


Floats backw.ird as by a sudden wind- 


But I see no light behind ; 


Like a victor, speaks the Slain — 


But 1 feel the farthest stars are all 


A)igel voices. Finished be the trem- 


Stricken and shaken. 


bling vain 1 


And I know a shadow sad and broad. 


Ador. Upward, like a welhloved Son, 


Doth fall—doth fall 


Looketh He, the orphaned One — 


On our vacant thrones in heaven. 


An£'el voices. Finished is the mystic 


Voice fi-ovi the C7-0ss. Mv God, my 


pain 1 


God, 


Voices of Falle7i Angels. His deathly 


Why hast ThoL' me torsaken ? 


forehead at the word, 


The Earth. Ah me, ah me, ah me ! 


Gleameth like a seraph sword. 


the dreadful why! 


Angel voices. Finished is the demon 


My sin is on Thee, sinless One 1 Thou 


fsignl 


art 


Ador. His breath, as living God, 


God-orphaned, for my burden on Thy 


createth— 


head. 


His breath, as dying man, complet- 


Dark sin 1 white innocence 1 endurance 


eth. 


dread 1 


Angel i'Oices. Finished work His 


Be still, within your shrouds, my buried 


hands sustain 1 


dead— 


The Earth. In mine ancient sepul- 


Nor work with this quick horror round 


chres 


mine heart 1 


Where my kings and prophets 


Zerah. He hath forsaken Itlm ! I 


freeze, 


perish— 
Ador. Hold 


Adam dead four thousand years, 


Unwakened by the universe's 


Upon His name 1 We perish not. Of 


Everlasting noan, 


old 


Aye his ghastly silence, mocking— 


His will 


Unwakened by '.na children's kuuck- 


/j-rah. I seek His wdl. Seek, 


in* 


Sera;)him 1 


At his old sepuicural stone — 



THE SERAPHIM. 



' Adam, Adam 1 all this curse is 

Thine and on us yet 1'- 

Un wakened by the ceaseless tears 
Vvherevvith ttiey made his cere- 
ment wet — 
' Adam, must thy curse remain V — 
Starts with sudden life, and hears 
Through the slow dripping of the cav- 
erned eaves,^ 

Angel 7)oices. Finished is his bane ! 
P'oice from the Cress. Father! my 

SPIRIT TO THINE HANDS IS GIVEN I 

Ador. Hear the wailing winds that 
be 
By wings of unclean Spirits made I 

They, in that last look, surveyed 
Ihc; love they lost in losing heaven, 

And passionately flee, 
With a desolate cry that cleaves 
The natural storms — though t/iey are 

lifting 
God's strong cedar-roots like leaves ; 
And the earthquake and the thunder. 
Neither keeping neither under. 
Roar and hurtle through the glooms, — 
And a few pale stars are driftmg 
Past the Dark, to disappear. 
What time, from the splitting tombs, 
Gleamingly the Dead arise, 
Viewing with their death-calmned eyes. 
The elemental strategies. 
To witness, victory is the Lord's 1 
Hear the wail o' the spirits ! hear, 

^ierah. I hear alone the memory of 
His words. 



THE EPILOGUE. 



My song is done ! 

My voice that long hath faltered shall 
be still. 

1"he mystic darkness drops from Cal- 
vary's hill 

Into the common light of this day's sun. 



I see no more Thy cross, O holy Slain ! 
I hear no more the horror and the coil 



Of the great world's turmoil, 
Feeling thy countenance too still, — nor 

yell 
Of demons sweeping past it to their 

prison. 
The skies, that turned to darkness with 
Thy pain. 

Make now a summer's day, — 
And on my changed ear, that sabbath 
bell 

Records how Christ is risen. 



lit. 

And I — ah ! what am I 
To counterfeit, with faculty earth-dark' 

ened 

Seraphic brows of light 
And seraph language never used not 

hearkened '? 
Ah me ! what word that Seraphs say, 

could come 
From mouth so used to sighs — so soon 

to lie 
Sightless, because then breathless, in 

the tomb ? 



Bright ministers of God and grace ! — -of 

grace 
Because of God ! — whether yc bow 

adown 
In your own heaven, before the living 

face 
Of Him who died, and deathless wears 

the crown — 
Or whether at this hour, ye haply are 
Anear, around me, hiding in the night 
Of this permitted ignorance your light. 

This feeblene s to spare, — 
Forgive me, that mine earthly heart 

should dare 
Shape images of unincarnate spirits. 
And lay upon their burning lips .a 

thought 
Cold with the weeping which mine earth 

inherits ; 
And though ye find in such hoarse music 

wrought 
To copy yours, a cadence all the while 
Ofsin and sorrow-^only pitying smile ! — 
Ye know to pity, well. 



THE POET'S I'OJr 



/ too may liaply smile another day 
At the far recollection of this lay. 
When God may call mc in your midst 

to dwell, 
To hear your most sweet music's miracle 
And see your wondrous faces. May it 

be. 
For His remembered sake, the Slain on 

rood, 
Who rolled His earthly garment red in 

blood 
(Treading the v/inc-press) that the weak, 

like me. 
Before His heavenly throne should walk 

in white. 



THE poi'.T'.s vow. 



PART THE FIRST. 



SHOWI.NG WHEREFORE THE VOW WAS 
■ .MADE. 



Eve is a twofold mystery — 
The stillness Earth doth keep ; 

The motion wherewith human hearts 
Do each to either leap. 

As if all souls between the poles, 
Felt 'Parting comes in sleep.' 



The rowei-s lift their oars to view 

Each other m the sea ; 
The landsmen watch the rocking boats, 

In a plexsant company : 
While up the hill go gladlier still 

Dear friends by two and three. 



The peasant's wife hath looked without 
Her cottage door and smiled ; 

For there the peasant drops his spade 
To clasp his youngest child 

Which hath no speech, but its hands 
can reach 
And stroke his forehead mild. 



A poet sate that eventide 

Within his hall alone. 
As silent as its ancient lords 

In the coffined place of stone , 
When the bat hath shrunk from the 
praying monk — 

And the praying monk is gone. 



Nor wore the dead a stiller face 
Beneath the cerement's roll : 

His lips refusmg out in words 
Their mystic thoughts to dole, 

His steadfast eye burnt inwardly, 
As burning out his soul. 

VI. 

Vou would not think that brow could 
e'er 

Ungentle moods express. 
Yet seemed it, in this troubled world, 

Too calm for gentleness : 
When the very star, that shines from f.ir, 

Shines trembling ne'crtheless. 



It lacked — all need — the softening light 

Which other brows supply^ : 
We should conjoin the scathed trunks 

Of our humanity, 
That each leafless spray entwining may 

Look softer 'gainst the sky. 



None gazed within the poet's face — 

The poet gazed in none : 
He threw a lonely shadow straight 

Before the moon and s'ln, 
Affronting nature's .' «aven-dwelKng 
creatures, 

With wrong to nature done. 



Because this poet daringly, 

The nature at his heart, 
And that quick tune along his veins 

He could not change by art, 
Had vowed his blood of brotherhood 

To a stagnant place apart. 



THE POETS VOVy. 



He did not vow in fear, or wrath, 

Or grief's fantastic whim ; 
But, weights and shows of sensual 
things 

Too closely crossing him. 
On his soul's eyelid the pressure slid 

And made its vision dim. 



And darkening in the dark he strove 
'Twixt earth and sun and sky. 

To lose in shadow, wave and cloud, 
His brother's hannling cry. 

The wind: were welcome as they swept ; 

God's five-day work he would accept, 
But let the rest go by. 



He cried — ' O touching, patient Earth, 

That weepest ifi thy glee, 
Whom God created very good, 

And very mournful, we 1 
Thy voice of moan doth reach His 
throne. 

As Abel's rose from thee. 



' Poor crystal sky, with stars astray ; 

Mad winds, that howling go 
From east to west ; perplexed seas, 

That stagger from their blow ! 
O motion wild ! O wave defiled I 

Our curse hath made you so. 



' IVt ! and our curse I Do /partake 

The desiccating sin ? 
Have /the apple at my lips? 

The money-lust within '.' 
Do / human stand with the wounding 
hand. 

To the blasting heart akin ? 

XV. 
• Thou solemn pathos of all things, 

For solemn pomp designed I 
Behold, submissive to your cause. 

An holy wrath I find. 
And, for your sake, the bondage break, 

'X'hat knits me to my kind. 



' Hear me forswear man's sympathies. 
His pleasant yea and no — 

His riot on the piteous earth 
Whereon his thistles grow I 

His changing love — with stars above ! 
His pride— with graves below 1 



' Hear me forswear his roof by night. 

His bread and salt by day, 
His talklngs at the wood-fire hearth. 

His greetings by the way. 
His answering looks, his.systemed books. 

All man, for aye and aye. 



■ That so my purged, once human heart, 

From all the humar. rer.t. 
May gather strergth to pledge and drink 

Voiir wine of wrndermert. 
While you pardon mc, all bkssingly, 

'I'he wue mine Adam sent. 



' And I shall feel your unseen looks 
Innumerous, constant, deep. 

And soft as haunted Adam once, 
'1 hough sadder, round me creep ; 

As slumbering men have mystic ken 
Of watchers on their sleep. 



' And ever, when I lift my brow 

At evening to the sun. 
No voice of woman or of child 

Recording ' Day is done,' 
Your silence shall a love express 

More deep than such an one I ' 



PART THE SECOND. 



SHOWING TO WHOM THE VOW W,\S 1>K- 
CLARED. 



The poet's vow was inly sworn.— 

The poet's vow was told : 
He shared among his crowding friends 



riiF. POETS row. 31 


The silver and the gold ; 


Some little touch of pain — 


They clasping bland his gift, — his liand 


'1 thought,' .she said, — but shook her 


In a somewhat slacker hold. 


head,— 


ir. 


She tried that speech in vain. 


They wended forth, the crowding 


VIII. 


friends, 


• I thought— but I am half a child. 


With farewells smooth and kind — 


And very sage art thou — 


They wended forth, the solaced friends, 


The teachings of the heaven and earth 


And left biit twain behind : 


Did keep us soft and low. 


One loved him true as brothers do. 


They have drawn mji tears in early 


And one was Rosalind. 


years. 




Or ere 1 wept — as now. 


III. 




He said — ' My friends have wended 


I\'. 


forth 


' Rut now that in thy face I read 


With farewells .smooth and kind. 


Their cruel homil)-, 


Mine oldest friend, my plighted bride. 


Before their beauty I would fain 


Ye need not stay behind. 


Untouched, unsoftened be, — 


Friend, wed my fair bride for my sake, 


If / indeed could look on even 


And let my lands ancestral make 


The senseless, loveless earth and heaven 


A dower for Rosalind. 


As //lou canst look on ;«<•. 


IV. 
' And when beside your wa.ssail board 


X. 

'And couldest thou as calmly view 


Ye bless your social lot, 


Thy childhood's far abode, 


I charge you that the giver be 


Where little feet kept time with thine 


In all his gifts forgot ! 


Along the dewy sod ? 


Or alone of all his words recall 


And thy mother's look from holy book 


The last, — Lament me not.' 


Rose, like a thought of God 'i 


V. 

She looked upon him silently. 


XI. 

' brother, — called so, ere her last 


With her large, doubting eyes. 


Betrothing words were said ! 


Like a child that never knew but love. 


' O fellow-watcher in her room. 


W'hom words of wrath surprise : 


With hushed voice and tread ! 


Till the rose did break from either cheek, 


Rememberest thou how, hand in hand, 


And the sudden tears did rise. 


O friend, O lover, we did stand. 




And knew that she was dead ? 


VI. 

She looked upon him mournfully, 


XII. 


While her large eyes were grown 


'I will not live Sir Roland's bride, — 


Yet larger with the steady tears ; 


That dower I will not hold ! 


Till, all his purjiose known, 


I tread below my feet that go. 


She turned slow, as she would go — 


These parchments bought and sold. 


The tears were shaken down. 


The tears I weep are mine to keep. 


VII. 

She turned slow, as she would go. 


And worthier than thy gold.' 


Xllt. 


Then quickly turned again : 


The poet and Sir Roland stood 


And gazing in his face to seek 


Alone, each turned to each : 



THE POET'S VOW. 



Till Roland brake the silence left 
By that solt-throbbing speech — 

'Poor heart ! ' he cr.ed, ' it vainly tried 
The distant heart to reach ! 



And tholi, O diitant, sinful heart. 

That climbest up so high, 
lo wrap and blind thee with the snows 

That cause to dream and die — 
What blessing can from lips of man. 

Approach thee with'his sigh ? 



' Ay ! what, frora earth — create for man. 

And moaning in his moan ''. 
Ay ! wh.it from stars — revealed to man, 

And man-named, one by one? 
Ay, more ! what blessing can be given. 
Where the Spirits seven do show in 
heaven, 

A MAN upon the throne "J — 

XVI. 

' A man on earth he wandered once, 

All meelc and undefiled : 
And those who loved Him said ' He 
wept ' — 
None ever said He smiled ; 
Yet 'here might have been a smile un- 
seen. 
When He bowed his blessed face, 1 
ween, 
To bless that happy child. 



' And now he pleadeth up in heaven 

'For our humanities. 
Till the ruddy light on seraph's wings 

In pale emotion dies. 
They can better bear his Godhead's 
glare. 

Than the pathos of his eyes. 

XVIII. 

' I will go pray our God to-day 

To teach thee how to scan 
His work divine for human use 

Since earth on axle ran ! 
To teach thee to discern as plain 
HLs grief divine — the blood -drop's stain 
He left there, man for man. 



' So, for the blood's sake, shed by Him, 

Whom angels God declare. 
Tears, like it, moiot and warm with love, 

Thy reverent eyes shall wear. 
To see i' the face of Adam's race 

Ihe nature God doth share.' 



' 1 heard,' the poet said, ' thy voice 

As dimly as thy breath ! 
The sound was litce the noise of life 

To one anear his death ; 
Or of waves that fail to stir the pale 

Sere leaf they roll beneath. 



' And still between the sound and me 
White creatures like a mist 

Did interrioat confusedly, — 
Mysterious shapes untwist! 

Across my heart and across my brow 

1 felt them droop like wreaths of snow 
To still the pulse they kist. 



'The castle and the lands are thine- 

The poor's — it shall be done : 
Go, man : to love! 1 go to live 

In Courland hall, alone. 
The bats along the ceilings cling. 
The lizards in the floor do run. 
And storms and years have worn and 

reft 
The stain by human builders left 
In working at the stone I ' 



PART THE THIRD. 



SHOWING HOW THE VOW WAS KEFl 



He dwelt alone, and, sun and moon 
Were Ivitness that he made 

Rejection of his hnmanness 
Until they seemed to fade. 

His face did so ; for he did grow 
Of his own soul afraid. 



THE POET'S VOIK 



33 



The self-poised God may dwell alone 
With inward glorying ; 

But God'a chief angel waiteth for 
A broiher's voice, to sing. 

And a lonely creature of sinful nature- 
It is an awful thing. 



An awful thing that feared itself 
While many years did roll, 

A lonely man, a feeble man, 
A part beneath the whole — 

He DDre by day, he bore by night 

That pressure of God's infinite 
Upon his finite soul. 



The poet at his lattice sate. 

And downward looked he : 
Three Christians wended by to prayers. 

With mute ones in their ee. 
Each turned above a face of love. 

And called him to the far chapelle 
With voice more tuneful than its bell — 

But still they wended three. 



There journeyed by a bridal pomp, 
A bridegroom and his dame : 

She speai<e:h low for happiness. 
She blusheth red for shame. 

But never a tone of benison 
From out the lattice came. 



A little child with inward song. 

No louder noise to dare. 
Stood near the wall to see at play 

The lizards green and rare — 
Unblessed the while for his childish 
smile 

Which cometh unaware. 



PART THE FOURTH. 



:HOvvir,'G HOW Rosalind fared uy the 

KEEPING OF THE VOW. 



In denth-sheets lieth Rosalind, 
As white and still as they ; 



And the old nurse that watched her bed. 

Rose up with ' Well-a-day !' 
And opened the casement to let in 
The sun, and that sweet doubtful din 
Which droppeth from the grass and 

bough 
Sans wind and bird — none knoweth 
how — 
To cheer her as she lay. 



The old nurse started when she saw 

Her sudden look of woe ! 
But the quick wan tremblings round her 
mouth 

In a meek smile did go ; 
And calm she said, ' When I am dead. 

Dear nurse, it shall be so. 



' Till then, shut out those sights and 
sounds. 

And pray God pardon me. 
That I without this pain, no more 

His blessed works can see ! 
And lean beside me, loving nurse. 
That thou mayst hear, ere I am worse. 

What thy last love should be. ' 



The loving nurse leant over her. 
As white she lay beneath ; 

The old eyes searching, dim with life, 
I'he young ones dim with death. 

To read their look if sound forsook 
The trying, trembling breath. — 



' When all this feeble breath is done. 

And 1 on bier am laid. 
My tresses smoothed for never a feast. 

My body in shroud arrayed : 
Uplift each palm in a saintly calm. 

As if that still I prayed. 



' And heap beneath mine head the 
flowers 

You stoop so low to pull ; 
The little white flowers from the wood. 

Which grow there in the cool : 
Which he and 1, in childhood's games. 



THE POETS VOW. 



Went plucking, knowing not their 
names, 
And ruled thine apron full. 



' Weep not ! / weep not. Death is 
strong ; 

The eyes of Death are dry : 
But lay this scroll upon my breast 

When hushed its heavings lie ; 
And wait awhile for the corpse's smile 

Which shincth presently. 



' And when it shineth, straightway call 
Thy youngest children dear. 

And bid them gently carry me 
All barefaced on the. bier — 

But bid them pass my kirkyard grass 
That wavetfi long anear. 



' And up the bank where I used to sit. 
And dre.am what life would be. 

Along the brook, with its sunny look 
Akin to living glee ; 

O'er the windy hill, through the forest 
still, 
Lt,f. thejn gently carry me. 



' And through the piney forest still. 
And dov\ni the open moorland — 

Round where the sea beats mistily 
And blindly on the foreland — 

And let them chant that hymn I know. 

Bearing me soft, bearing me slow. 
To the old hall of Courland. 



'And when withal they near the hall, 

In silence let them lay 
My bier before the bolted door. 

And leave it for a day : 
For I have vowed, though T am proud, 
To go there xs a guest in shroud. 

And not be turned away.' 



The old nurse looked within her eyes, 
Whose mutual look was gone : 



The old nurse stooped upon her mouth. 

Whose answering voice was done ; 
And nought she heard, till a little bird 

Upon the casement's woodbine swing- 
mg. 
Broke out into a loud sweet singing 

For joy o' the summer sun. 
"Alack! alack!" — she watched no 
more — 

With head on knee she wailed sore ; 
And the little bird sang o'er and o'er 

For joy o' the summer sim. 



PART THE FIFTH. 

SHOWING HOW THE'VOW \V.\S BKOKEN. 



The poet oped his bolted door, 

The midnight sky to view. 
A spirit ieel was in the air 
Which seemed to touch his spirit bare 

Whenever his breath he drew ; 
And the stars a liquid softness had, 
As alone their holine.ss forbade 

Their falling with the dew. 



They shine upon the steadfast hills. 

Upon the swinging tide ; 
Upon the narrow track of beach. 

And the murmuring pebbles pied ; 
They shine on every lovely place^ 
They shine upon the corpse's face. 

As it were fair beside. 



It lay before him, humanlike. 

Yet so imlike a thing ! 
More awful in its shrouded pomp 

Than any crowned king : 
All calm and cold, as it did hold 

Some secret, glorying. 



A heavier weight than of its clay 
Clung to his heart and knee : 

A* if those folded palms could strike. 
He staggered groan ingly. 

And then o'erhung, without a groan, 



THE POET'S I'Oir. 



The meek close mouth that smiled alone, 
Whose speech the scroll must be. 

THE WORDS OF ROSALIND'S SCKOLL. 

' I LEFT thee last, a child at heart, 

A woman scarce in yeai's : 
1 come to thee a solemn corpse. 

Which neither feels nor fears. 
I have no breath to iLse ni sighs ; 
They laid the death-weights on mine 
eyes. 

To seal them safe from tears. 

"Look on me with thine own calm look — 

I meet it calm as thou ! 
No look of thme can change i/tis smile, 

Or break thy sinful vow. 
I tell thee that my poor scorned heart 
Is of thine earth . . thine earth— «a 
part — 
It cannot vex thee now. 

' But out, alas ! those words are writ 

By a hvmg, loving one, 
Adown whose cheeks, the proofs of life 

The v/ar.m quick tears do run. 
Ah, let the unloved corpse control 
Thy scorn back from the loving soul 

Whose place cf rest is won, 

' 1 have prayed for thee with bursting 
sobs. 
When passion's course wa-s free : 
I have prayed for thee with silent lips. 

In the anguish none could see ! 
They whispered eft, ' She sleepeth 
soft ' — 
But I only prayed for thee. 

' Go to ! I pray for thee no more — 

The corpse's tongue is still ; 
Its folded fingers pomt to heaven. 

But point there stiff and chill : 
No farther wrong, no f.u-ther woe 
Hath license from the sin below 

Its tranquil heart to thrill. 

' I charge thee, by the living's prayer. 

And the dead's silentness. 
To wring from out thy soul a cry 

Which Gcd shall hear and bless ! 
Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my 
hand, 



.4nd pale among the saints I stan 1, 
A saint companionless.' 



Bow lower down before the throne, 

Triumphant Rosalind ! 
He boweth on thy corpse his face. 

And weepeth as the blind. 
'Twas a dread sight to see them so— 
For the senseless corpse' rocked to ami 
fro 

With the living wail of his mind. 



But dreader sight, could .such be seen. 

His inward mind did lie ; 
Whose long-siibjected humanness 

Gave-out its lion cry. 
And fiercely rent its tenement 

In a mortal agony. 



I tell you, friends, had you heard !ii» 
wail, 

'Twould haunt you in court and mart, 
And in merry feast, until you set 

Your cup down to depart — 
That weeping wild of a reckless child 

From a provid man's broken he.«rt. 



O broken heart ! O broken vow. 
That wore so proud a feature ! 

God, grasping as a thunderbolt 
The man's rejected nature. 

Smote him therewith — i' the presence 
high 

Of his so worshipped earth and sky 

That looked on all indifferently — 
A wailirig human creature. 



A human creature found too weak 

To bear his human pain — 
(May Heaven's dear grace have spoken 
peace 

To his dying heart and brain !) 
For when they came at dawn of day 
To lift the lady's corpse away. 

Her bier was holding twain. 



THE ROMAUNT OF MARGRET. 



They dug beneath the kirkyard grass 

For both one dweUing deep : 
To which, when years had mossed the 

stone. 
Sir Roland brought his httlc son 

To watch the tiineral heap. 

And when the happy boy would rather 
Turn upward his blithe eyes to see 
The wood -doves nodding from the tree — 

' Nay, boy, look downward,' said his 
father, 
' Upon this hu man dust asleep : 
And hold it in ihy constant ken 
That God's own unity compresses 

One into one, the human many. 
And that His everlastingness is 

The bond which is not loosed by any. 

For thou and I this law must keep, 
If not in love, in sorrow then ; 
Though smiling not like other men. 

Still like them we must weep.' 



THE ROMAUNT OF 
iAI A R G R E T. 



Can m,T alTectlons And out iiotliing l)pst 
But Btill una »llll remove ? 



I PLANT a tree whose leaf 

The yew-tree leaf will suit ; 
But when its sh.ide is o'er you laid. 

Turn round and pluck the fruit ! 
Now reach my harp from off the wall 

Where shines the sun aslant : 
The sun may shine and we be cold — 
O hearken, loving hearts and bold. 

Unto my wild romaunt, 

Margret, Margret. 



Sitteth the fair ladye 
(Jose to the river side. 



Which runneth on with a merry tone. 
Her merry thoughts to guide. 
It runneth through the trees. 
It runneth by the hill, 
Nathlessthe lady's thoiighLs have found 
A way more plea-sant still. 

Margret, Margret. 



The night is in her hair 
And giveth shade to shade, 
And the pale moonlight on her forehead 
white 
Like a spirit's hand is laid : 
Her lips part with a smile 
Instead of speakings done — 
I ween, she thinketh of a voice. 
Albeit uttering none. 

Margret, Margret. 



All little birds do sit 

With heads beneath their wings ; 
Nature doth seem in .a mystic dream. 
Absorbed from her living things. 
That dream by that ladye 
Is certes unpartook. 
For she looketh to the high cold stars 
With a tender human look. 

Margret, Margret. 



The lady's shadow lies 
Upon the running river : 
It lieth no less in its quietness, 

For that which resteth never ; 
Most like a trusting heart 
Upon a passing faith, — 
Or as. upon the course of life. 
The steadfast doom of death. 

!Margret, Margret. 



The lady doth not move. 
The lady doth not dream. 
Yet she seeth her shade no longer laid 
In rest upon the stream ! 
It shaketh without wind ; 
It parteth from the tide ; 
It standeth upright in the cleft moon, 
light- 
It sitteth at her side. 

Margret, Margret. 



THE ROM AUNT OF AfARGRET. 



Look ill its face, ladye. 
And keep thee from thy swoiind ! 
With a spirit bold, thy pulses hold. 
And hear its voice's sound ! 
For so will sound thy voice, 
When thy face is to the wall ; 
And such will be thy face, ladye, 

When the maidens work thy pall — 
Margret, Margrct. 

VIII. 

' Am I not like to thee ? ' — 
The voice was calm and low — 
And between each word you might have 
heard 
The silent forests grow. 
' T/ie like may sivay the like ! 
By which mysterious lay 
Mine eyes from thine and my lips from 
thine 
The light and breath may draw. 

Margret, Margret, 



' My lips do need thy breath. 
My lips do need thy smile, 
And my pallid eyne, that light in thine 
Which met the stars crewhile ; 
Yet go with light and life. 
If that thou lovest one 
In all the earth, who loveth thee 
As truly as the sun, 

Margret, Margret.' 



Her cheek had wa.xed white 
Like cloud at fall of snow ; 
Then like to one at set of svm. 
It wa.\ed red also ; 
For love's name maketh bold. 
As if the loved were near. 
And then she sighed the deep long sigh 
Which Cometh after fear. 

Margret, Margret. 



' Now, sooth, I fear thee not — 

Shall never fear thee now ! ' 

(And a noble sight was the sudden fight 

Which lit her lifted brow.) 

•Can earth be dry of streams. 

Or hearts of love ? ' she said — 



' Who doubteth love, can know not love : 
He is already dead.' 

Mirgret, Margret. 



' I have' . . . and here her lips 
Some word in pause did keep. 
And gave the while a quiet smile. 
As if they paused in sleep ; — 
' I have ... a brother dear, 
A knight of knightly fame ! 
I broidered him a knightly scarf 
With letters of my name. 

Margret, Margret 



' I fed his grey goss hawk, 

I kissed his fierce bloodhoimd ; 
I sate at home when he might come. 
And caught his horn's far sound : 
I sang him hunter's songs, 
I poured him the red wine — 
He looked across the cup and said, 
I love thee, sister mine.' 

Margret, Tilargret. 



IT trembled on the grass, 

With a low, shadowy laughter : 
The sounding river which rolled forever. 
Stood dumb and stagnant after. 
" Brave knight thy brother is ; 
But better loveth he 
Thy chaliced wine than thy chanted 
song, 
And better both than thee, 

^largret, Margret. 



The lady did not heed 
The river's silence whrle 
Her own thoughts still ran at their will. 
And calm was still her smile. 
' My little sister wears 
The look our mother wore : 
I smooth her locks with a golden comb — 
1 bless her evermore.' 

l^argret, Margret. 



I gave her my first bird, 
^\'hen first my voice it knew ; 



38 



THE ROM AUNT OF MARC, RET. 



1 made her share my posies rare, 
And told her where tliey grew : 
I taught her God's dear name 
With prayer and praise, to tell — 
She looked from heaven into my face. 
And said, I Ijve thee well.' 

Margret.-Margret. 



IT trembled on the grass 

With a low, shadowy laughter ; 
You could see each bird as it woke and 
stared 
Through the shrivelled foliage after, 
/air child thy sister is ; 
But better loveth she 
Thy golden comb than thy gathered 
flowers. 
And better both than thee, 

Margret, Margret. 

xvm. 
The lady did not heed 
The withering on the bough : 
Still calm the smile albeit the while 
A little pale her brow. 
• 1 have a father old, 

i'he lord of ancient halls : 
An hundred friends are in his court. 
Yet only me he calls. 

Margret, Margret. 



' An hundred knights are in his court, 
Yet read 1 by his knee ; 
And when forth they go to the tourney 
.show, 
I rise not up to see. 
'Tis a weary book to read — 
My tryst's at set of sun ! 
But loving and dear beneath the stars 
Is his blessing when I've done.' 

Margret, Margret. 



IT trembled on the gra.<s 

With a low, .shadowy laughter : 
And moon and star though bright and 
far 
Did shrij,* and darken after. 
' High lord ihy father is ; 
But better loveth he 



His ancient halls than his hundred 
friends. 
His ancient halls, than thee. 

Margret, Maigret. 



The lady did not heed 
That the far stars did fail : 
Still calm her smile, albeit the while 
Nay, but she is not pale ! 
' I have a more than friend 
Across the mountain dim : 
No other's voice is soft to me. 
Unless it nameth hhit.' 

Margret, Margret 

XXII. 

' Though louder beats mine heart 
I know his tread again — 
And his far plume aye, unless turned 
away. 
For the tears do blind me then. 
We brake no gold, a sign 
Of .stronger faith to be : 
But 1 wear his last look in my soul. 
Which said, / liTve but thee ! ' 

Margret, Margret. 



IT trembled on the gras.s, 

With a low, shadowy laughter ; 
And the wind did toll, as a passing soul 
Were sped by church-bell after : 
And shadows, 'stead of light. 
Fell from the stars above. 
In flakes of darkness on her face 
Still bright with trusting love. ' 

Margret, Margret. 



' He loved but only thee ! 
That love is transient too. 
The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still 
r the mouth that vowed thee true. 
Will he open his dull eyes. 
When tears fall on his brow ? 
Behold, the death-worm to his heart 
Is a nearer thing than thou, 

Margret, Margret. 



Her face was on the ground- 
None saw the agony ! 




ISOliEL'S CHILD. 



ISOBEL 'S CHILD. 



But the men at sea did that night agree 
They heard a drowning cry. 
And when the morning brake, 
Fast rolled the river's tide, 
With the green trees waving overhead. 
And a wliite corse laid beside. 

Margret, Margret. 



A knight's bloodhound and he 
The funeral watch did keep : 
With a thought o' the chase he stroked 
its face 
As it hawled to see him weep. 
A fair child kis.sed the dead. 
But shrank before the cold : 
And alone yet proudly in his hall. 
Did stand a baron old. 

Margret, Margret. 



Hang up my harp again — 
I have no voice for song. 
Not song but wail, and mourners pale 
Not bards, to love belong. 
O failing human love ! 

O li.ght by darkness known ! 
O false the while thou treadest earth ! 
O deaf beneath the stone ! 

Margret, Margret. 



ISOBEL'S CHILD. 



profit, 



Sn.4iiSPE.\RE. 



To rest the weary nurse has gone ; 
An eight-day watch had watched 
she. 
Rocking beneath the sun and moon 

The baby on her knee : 
Till Isobel its mother said 
"The fever waneth — wend to bed — 
For now the watch comes round to 
me.' 



Then wearily the nurse did throw 
Her pallet in the darkest place 

Of that sick room, and slept and 

dreamed. 
And as the gusty wind did blow 
The night-lamp's flare across her 
face, 
She saw or seemed to see but dream- 
ed. 
That the poplars tall on the oppo- 
site hill, 
The seven tall poplars on the hill, 
Did cla-sp the setting sun imtil 
His rays dropped from him, pined and 
still 

As blossoms in frost : 
Till he waned and paled, so weirdly 
crossed. 
To the colour of moonlight which 

doth pass 
Over the dsnk ridged churchyard 
grass. 
The poplars held the sun, and he 
The eyes of the nurse that they should 

not see. 
Not for a moment, the babe on her 

knee. 
Though she shuddered to feel that it 
grew to be 
Too chill, and lay too heavily. 



She only dreamed : for all the while 
'Twas Lady Isobel that kept 
The little baby ; and it slept 
Fast, warm, as if its m.other's smile. 
Laden with love's dewy weight. 
And red as rose of Harpocrate 
Dropt upon its eyelids, pressed 
Lashes to cheek in a sealed rest. 



And more and more smiled Isobel 
To see the baby sleep so well — 
She knew not that she .smiled. 
Against the lattice, dull and wild 
Drive the heavy droning drops. 
Drop by drop, the sound being nne^ 
As momently time's segments fall 
On the ear of God who hears through 
all 



4° 



! SO BEL'S CHILD. 



Eternity's unbroken monotone. 
And more and more smiled Jsobel 
'I'o see the baby sleep so well — 
She knew not that she smiled. 
Tne wind in intermission stops 
Down in the beechen iorest, 
Then cries aloud 
As one at the sorest, 
Self-stung, self-driven, 
And ris-is up to its very tops, 
Stiffening erect the branches bowed ; 
Dilating with a tempest soul 
The trees that ^ith their dark hands 
break 
Through their o..n outline and heavily 
roll 
shadows as massive as clouds in 
heaven. 
Across the castle lake. 
And more and more smiled Isobel 
To see the baby sleep so well ; 
She knew not that she smded — 
She knew not that the storm was wild. 
Through the uproar drear she could not 

hear 
The castle clock which struck anear — 
She heard the low, light breathing of 
her child. 

V. 

O sight for wondering look I 
While the external nature broke 
Into such abandonment ; 
While the very mi.st heart-rent 
By the lightning, seemed to eddy 
Against nature, with a din — 
A sense of silence and of steady 
Natural calm appeared to come 
From things without, and enter in 

The human creature's room. 



So motionless she sate. 
The babe asleep upon her knees. 
You might have dreamed their souls had 

gone 
Away to things inanimate. 
In s'.ich to live, in such to moan ; 
And that their bodies had ta'en bac'c. 
In mystic change, all silences 
That cross the sky in cloudy rack. 
Or dwell beneath the reedy ground 
In waters safe from their own sound. 



Only she wore 
The deepening smile 1 named before. 
And that a deepening love expressed — 
And who at once can love and rest ? 



In sooth the smile that then was keeping 
Watch upon the baby sleeping. 
Floated with its tender light • 
Downward, from the drooping eyes. 
Upward, from the lips apart. 
Over cheeks which had grown white 

With an eight-day weeping. 
All smiles come in such a wise. 
Where tears shall fall or have of old — • 
Like northern lights that (ill the heart 

Of heaven in sign of cold. 



Motionless she sate : 
Her hair had fallen by its weight 
On each side of her smile, and lay 
Very blackly on the arm 
Where the baby nestled warm ; 
Pale as baby carved in stone 
Seen by glimpses of the moon 

Up a dark cathedral aisle : 
But, through the storm, no moonbeam 

fell 
Upon the child of Isobel — 
Perhaps you saw it by the ray 

Alone of her still smile. 



A solemn thing it is to me 

'I'o look upon a babe that sleeps — 

Wearing in its spirit-deeps 

The undeveloped mystery 

Of its Adam's taint and woe. 

Which, when they developed be. 

Will not let it slumber so : 

Lying new in life beneath 

The shadow of the coming death. 

With that soft, low, quiet breath. 

As if it felt the sun ! 
Knowing all things by their blooms. 
Not their roots ; yea, — sun and sky. 
Only by the warmth that comes 
Out of each ; earth only by 
I he pleasant hues that o'er it run ; 
And human love, by drops of sweet 
White nourishment still hanging round 



JSOBEL'S CHILD. 



41 



The little mouth so shimber-bound. 

All which broken sentiency 
And conclusion incomplete, 
i Will gather and unite and climb 
i To an immortality 

Good or evil, each sublime. 

Through life and death to life again I 

O little lids, now folded fast. 

Must ye learn to drop at last 

Our large and burning tears? 

O warm quick body, must thou lie, 

When the time comes round to die. 

Still from all the whirl of years, 

B-ire of all the joy and pain ? 

O small frail being, wilt thou stand 
At God's right hand. 

Lifting up those sleepnig eyes 

Dilated by great destinies. 

To an endless waking? Thrones and 
seraphim, 

Through the long ranks of their solemni- 
ties. 

Sunning thee with calm looks of 
Heaven's surprise — 

But thine alone on Hint ? — 

Or else, self-willed, to tread the godless 
place, 

(God keep thy will !) feel thine own 
energies 

Cold, strong, objectless, like a dead 
man's clasp, 

Thesteepless deathless life within thee, 
grasp ; ^ 

While myriad faces, like one changeless 
face. 

With woe not lime's, shall glass thee 
everywhere. 

And overcome thee with thine own des- 
pair ? 



More soft, less solemn images 
Drifted o'er the lady's heart. 

Silently as snow : 
She had seen eight days depart 
Hour by hour, on bended knees. 
With pale-wrung hands and prayingslow 
And broken — through which came the 

sound 
Of tears that fell against the ground, 
Making sad stops ; — ' Dear Lord, dear 

Lord ! ' 
She still had prayed — (the heavenly 

word. 



Broken by an earthly sigh), 
' Thou, who didst not erst deny 
The mother-joy to Mary mild. 
Blessed in the blessed child, 
Which hearkened in meek babyhood 
Her cradle-hymn, albeit used 
To all that music interfused 
In breasts of angels high and good ! 
Oh, take not. Lord, my babe away — 
Oh, take not to thy songful heaven. 
The pretty baby thou hast given. 
Or ere that I have seen him play 
Around his father's knees and known 
That he knew how my love hath gone 

From all the world to him. 
Think, God among the cherubim. 
How I shall shiver every day 
In thy Jime sunshine, knowing where 
The grave-grass keeps it from his fair 
Still cheeks I and feel at every tread 
His little body which is dead 
And hidden in the turfy fold. 
Doth make thy whole warm earth a- 
cold 1 

God, I am so young, so young — 

1 am not used to tears at nights 
Instead of slumber — nor to prayer 
With sobbing lips and hands out-wrung ; 
Thou knowest all my prayings were 

'I bless thee, God, for past delights — 
Thank God !' I am not used to bear 
Hard thoughts of death. The earth 

doth cover 
No face from me of friend or lover : 
And must the first who teacheth me 
The form of shrouds and fimerals, be 
Mine own firet-born beloved ? he 
Who taught me first this mother-love? 
Dear Lord, who sprcadcst out above 
Thy loving, transpierced hands to meet 
All lifted hearts with blessing sweet, — - 
Pierce not my heart, my tender heart, 
Thou madest tender ! Thou who art 
So happy in thy heaven atway. 
Take not mine only bliss away ! ' 



She so had prayed : and God, who hears 
Through seraph-songs the sound of tears. 
From that beloved babe had ta'en 
The fever and the beating pain. 
And more and more smiled Isobel 
To see the baby sleep .so well — 

(She knew not that she smiled, I wis,) 



42 



JSOBEL'S CHILD. 



Until the pleasant gradual thought 
Which near her heart the smile en- 
wrought, 
(Soon strong enough her lips to reach,) 
Now soft and slow, itself, did seem 
To float along a happy dream. 
Beyond it into speech like this. 

XI!. 

' I prayed for thee, my little child. 
And God hath heard my prayer ! 
And when thy babyhood is gone, 
We two together, iindefiled 
By men's repinings, »,'ill kneel down 
Upon His earth whicli will be fair 
(Not covering thee, sweet !) to us twain, 
And give Him thankful praise.' 



Dully and wildly drives the rain : 
Against the lattices drives the rain. 



' I thank Him now, that I can think 

(.)f those same future days. 
Nor from the harmless image shrink 

Of what I there might see — 
Strange babies on their mothers' knee, 
Who-ie innocent soft faces might 
From off my eyelids strike the light, 
Wi^h looks not meant for me ! ' 



Gustily blows the wind through the rain, 
As against the lattices drives the rain. 



' But now, O baby mine, together. 

We turn this hope of ours again 

To many an hour of summer weather 

When we shall sit and intertwine 

Our spirit.s, and instruct each other 

In the pure loves of child and mother ! 

Two human loves make one divine.' 

XVII. 
'I'he thunder tears through the wind and 

the rain. 
As full on the lattices drives the rain. 

XVIII. 
' My little cliild, what wilt thou choose ? 
Let me look at thee and ponder. 



What gladness, from the gladnesses 
Futurity is spreading under 
Thy gladsome sight ? Beneath the trees 
Wilt thou lean all day and lose 
Thy spirit with the river seen 
Intermit. ently between 
The winding beechen alleys, — \ 

Half in labour, half repose, \ 

Like a shepherd keeping sheep. 
Thou, with only thoughts to keep 
Which never a bound will overpass, 
And which are innocent as those 
That feed among Arcadian valleys 
Upon the dewy grass? ' 



The large white owl that with .-'.ge is 

blind, 
That hath sate for years in the old tree 

hollow. 
Is carr.td away in a gust of wind ! 
His wings could bear him not as fast 
As he goeth now the lattice past^ 
He is borne by the winds ; the'rains do 

follow : 
His white wings to the blast out-flowing. 

He hooteth in going. 
And still in the lightnings, coldly glitter 

His round unblinking eyes. 



' Or, baby, wilt thou think it fitter 

To be eloquent and wise 1 

One upon whose lips the air 

Turns to solemn verities. 

For men to breathe anew, and win 

A deeper-seated life within 'i 

Wilt be a philosopher. 

By whose voice the earth and .skies 

Shall speak to the unborn ? 

Or a poet, broadly .spreading 

The golden immortalities 

Of thy soul on natures lorn 

And poor of such, them all to guard 

From their decay ? beneath thy tread- 
ing. 

Earth's flowers recovering hues of Eden ; 

And stars, drawn downward by thy 
looks 

To shine ascendant in thy boolis ? ' 



ISOBKL'S CHILD. 



The tame hawk in the castle yard. 
How it screams to the lightning, with its 

wet 
fagged plumes overhanging the parapet ! 
And at the lady's door the hound 
Scratches with a crying sound ! 



' But, O my babe, thy lids arc laid 

Close, fast upon thy cheek ! 
And not a dream of power and sheen 
Can make a passage up between : 
Thy heart is of thy mother's made. 

Thy looks are very meek ! 
And it will be their chosen place 
To rest on some beloved face. 
As these on thine — and let the noise 
Of the whole world go on, nor drown 
The tender silence of thy joys ; 
Or when that silence shall have grown 
Too tender for itself, the same 
Yearning for sound, — to look above 
And utter its one meaning, love. 

That He may hear His name ! ' 

■ XXIII. 

No wind — no rain — no thimder ! 

The waters had trickled not slowly. 

The thunder was not spent. 

Nor the wind near finishing. 

Who would have said that the storm w;is 

diminishing t 
No wind — no rain — no thunder ! 
Their noises dropped .asunder 
From the earth and the firmament. 
From the towers and the lattices. 
Abrupt and echoless 
As ripe fruits on the ground unshaken 

wholly — 

As life in death ; 
And sudden and solemn the silence fell. 
Startling the heart of Isobel 

As the tempest could not ! 
Against the door went panting the breath 
Of the lady's hound whose cry was still — 
And she, constrained howe'er she would 

not. 
Did lift her eyes, and saw the moon 
Looking out of heaven alone 
Upon the pnplared hill, — 
A calm of God. made visible 
That mren might bless it at their will. 



XXIV. 

The moonshine on the baby's face 

Falleth clear and cold. 
The mother's looks have fallen back 

To the same place : 
Because no moon with silver rack. 
Nor broad sunrise in jasper skies 
Have power to hold 
Our loving eyes. 

Which still revert, as ever must 

Wonder and Hope, to gaze on the du' l. 



The moonshine on the baby's face 
Cold and clear remaineth ! 

The mother's looks do shrink away. 

The mother's looks return to stay. 
As charmed by what paineth. 

Is any glamour in the case ? 

Is it dream or is it sight? 

Hath the change upon the wild 

Elements, that signs the night. 
Passed upon the child ? 

It is not dream but sight ! — • 

sxvi. 

The babe hath awakened from sleep. 
And unto the gaze of its mother 
Bent over it, lifted another ! 
Not the baby looks that go 
Unaimingly to and fro : 
But an earnest gazing deep. 
Such as soul gives soul at length, 
When, by work and wail of years. 
It winneth a solemn strength. 
And mourneth as it wears ! 
A strong man could not brcok 
With pulse unhurried by fears. 
To meet that baby's look 
O'erglazed by manhood's tears — 
The tears of the man full grown. 
With the power to wring our own. 
In the ey.;s all undefiled 
Of a little three-months' child ! 
To S3C that babe-brow wrought 
By the witnessing of thought. 
To judgment's prodigy ; 
And the small soft mouth unweaned. 
By mother's kiss o'erleaned 
I'Putting the sound of loving 
Where no sound else was moving. 
Except the speechless cry} 
Quickened to mind's expression. 



I so BEL'S CHILD. 



Shaped to articulation — 
Yea, uttering words — yea, naming woe 
In tones that with it strangely went, 
Because so baby-innocent, 
As the child spake out to the mother 



XXVII. 

• O mother, mother, loose thy prayer ! 

Christ's name hath made it st.ong ! 
It b;ndeth me, it holdeth me 
With iLs most loving cruelty, 
From floating my new soul along 

The happy heavenly air! 
It bindeth me, it holdeth me 
In all this dark, upon this dull 
Low earth, by only weepers trod ! — • 
It bindeth me, it iioldeth me ! — 
Mine angel looketh sorrowful 

Upon the face of God.* 

XXVIIl. 

' Mother, mother ! can I dream 

Beneath your earthly trees? 

I had a vision and a gleam — 

1 heard a sound more sweet than these 

When rippled by the wind. 
Did you see the Dove with wings 
Bithed in golden glisterings 
From a sunless light behind. 
Dropping on me from the sky 
Soft as mother's kiss until 
I seemed to le.ap, and yet was still ? 
Saw you how his love-large eye 
Looked upon me mystic calms. 
Till the power of his divine 
Vision was indrawn to mine? 

XXIX. 

' Oh, the dream within the dream ! 

1 saw celestial places even. 

() 1, the vistas of high palms, 

M I'cinT fmites of delight 

'1 tiroagh the heavenly infinite — 

Lifting up their green still tops 

To the heaven of Heaven ! 
Oh, the sweet life-tree that drops 
S'l ide like light across the river 
Glorified in its for ever 

Flowing from the Throne ! 

• For I say lliito ymi, that in IIiMveii tlii-li- 
nni;t-la do alwaya beholrl the facu ui my Fhi1i;.t 
• ■ ■ ■■ - j.,.^ jj_ 



which U iu Ueavcii. — MM ch. 



Oh the shining holinesses 

(Jf the thousand, thousand faces 

God-sunned by the throned One! 

And made intense with such a love. 

That though 1 .saw them turned above, 

Each loving seemed for also me ! 

And, oh, the Unspeakable ! the He. 

The m.anifest in secrecies. 

Yet of mine own heart partaker ! 

With the overcoming look 

Of one who hath been once forsook. 

And blesseth the forsaker. 
Mother, mother, let me go 
Towards the face that looketh so. 
Through the mystic, winged Four 
Whose are inward, outward eyes 
Dark with light of mysteries. 
And the restless evermore 
' Holy, holy, holy,'^ — through 
The sevenfold Lamps that burn in view 
Of cherubim and seraphim ; 
Through the four-and-twenty crowned 
Stately elders, white around, 
Suffer me to go to Him ! 



' Is your wisdom very wise, 
Mother, on the narrow earth? 
Very happy, very worth 
That I should stay to learn ? 
Are these air-corrupting sighs 
Fashioned by unlearned breath ? 
Do the student-s' lamps that burn 
All night, illumine death? 
Mother, albeit this be so. 
Loose thy prayer and let me go 
Where that bright chief angel stands 
Apart fro;n all his brother bands, 
Too glad for smiling ; having bent 
In angelic wilderment 
O'er the depths of God, and brought 
Reeling thence, one only thought 
To fill his whole eternity. 
He the teacher is for me ! — 
He can teach what I would know — 
Mother, Mother, let me go ! 

XXXI. 

' Can your poet make an Eden 

No winter will undo ? 
And light a starry fire while heeding 

His hearth's is burning too? 
Drown in music the earth's din ? 
And keep his own wild soul within 



ISOBEL'S CHILD. 



The law of his own harmony ? — 

Mother ! albeit this be so, 
Let me to my Heaven go! 
A little harp me waits thereby — 
A harp whose strings are golden all, 
And tuned to music spherical. 
Hanging on the green life-tree 
Where no willows ever be. 
Shall I miss that harp of mine ? 
Mother, no ! — the Eye divine 
Turned upon it, makes it shine — 
And when 1 touch it, poems sweet 
Like separate souls shall fly from it, 
Each to an immortal fytte. 
We shall all be poets there, 
Gazing on the chiefest Fair ! 

xxxii. 

' And love ! earth's love ! and can we 

love 
Fixedly where all things move ? 
Can the shining love each other? 

Mother, mother, 
I tremble in thy close embrace — 
I feel thy tears adown my face — 
Thy prayers do keep me out of bliss — 

O dreary earthly love ! 
Loose thy prayer and let me go 
To the place which loving is 
Yet not sad ! and when is given 
Escape to thee from this below. 
Thou shalt behold me that I wait 
For thee besido the happy gate ; 
And silence shall be up in heaven 

To hear our greeting kiss.' 

XXXIII. 

The nurse awakes in the morning sun, 
And starts to see beside her bed 
The lady with a grandeur spread 
Like pathos o'er her face ; as one 
God-satisfied and earth-undone : 
The babe upon her arm was dead ! 
And the nurse could utter forth no cry, — 
She was awed by the calm in the 
mother's eye. 

XXXIV. 

' Wake nurse !' the lady said : 
' Wc are waking — he and I — 
L on earth, and he, in sky ! 
And thou must help me to o'erlay 



With garment white, this little clay 
Which needs no more our lullaby. 



' I changed the cruel prayer I made. 
And bowed my meekened face, and 

prayed 
That God would do His will ! and 

thus 
He did it, nurse ; He parted us. 
And His sun shows victorious 
The dead calm face : — and / am 

calm : 
And Heaven is hearkening a new 

psalm. 



'This earthly noise is too anear, 
Too loud, and will not let me hear 
The little harp. My death will .soon 
Make silence.' 

And a sense of tune, 
A satisfied love meanwhile 
Which nothing earthly could despoil. 
Sang on within her soul. 

XXXVII. 

Oh yon. 
Earth's tender and impassioned few. 
Take courage to entrust your love 
To Him so Named, who guards above 

Its ends and shall fulfil ; 
Breaking the narrow prayers that may 
Befit your narrow hearts, ,iway 

In his broad, loving will. 



A ROMANCE OF THE 
GANGES. 



Seven maidens 'neath the midnight 

Stand near the river-sea. 
Whose water sweepeth white around 

The shadow of the tree. 
The moon and earth are face to face. 

And earth is slumbering deep ; 



46 



W ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 



The wave-voice seems the voice of 
dreams 
'I'hat wander through her sleep. 

The river flowctli on. 



What bring they 'neath the midnight. 

Beside the river-sea? 
They bring that human heart wherein 

Islo nightly cahn can be, — 
That droppeth never with the wind, 

Nor dryeth with the dew : 
Oh, cahn it God ! Thy calm is broad 

To cover spirits, too. 

The river floweth on. 



The maidens lean them over 

T"he waters, side by side. 
And shun each other's deepening eyes. 

And gaze adown the tide : 
For each within a little boat 

A little lamp hath put. 
And heaped for freight some lily^ 
weight 

Or scarlet rose half shut. 

The river floweth on. 



Of a .-^hell o'f cocoa carven, 
. Eacli l.ltle boat is made : 
Each carries a lamp, and carries a flower. 

And carries a hope unsaid. 
And when the boat hath carried the 
lamp 
Unqtienched, till out of sight. 
The maidens are sure that love will 
endure. 
But love will fail with light. 

The river floweth on. 



Why, all the stars are ready 

lo symbolize the soul. 
The stars untroubled by the wind. 

Unwearied as they roll : 
And yet the soul by instinct sad 

Reverts to symbols low — 
To that small flame, whose very name 

Breathed o'er it, shakes it so. 

The river floweth on. 



Six boats are on the river. 

Seven maidens on the shore ; 
While still above them steadiastly 

The stars shine evermore. 
Go, little boats, go soft and safe. 

And guard the symbol spark ! — 
The boats aright go safe and bright 

Across the waters dark. 

The river floweth on. 



The maiden Luti watcheth 

Where onwardly they float. 
That look ni her dilating eyes 

Might seem to drive her boat ; 
Her eyes still mark the constant fire. 

And kindling unawares 
That hopeful while, she lets a smile 

Creep silent through her prayers. 

The river floweth on. 



The smile — where hath it wandered ? 

She ri.seth from her knee. 
She holds her dark, wet locks away — 

There is no light to see ! 
She cries a quick and bitter cry — 

' Nuleeni, launch me thine 1 
We must have light abroad to-night. 

For all the wreck of mine.' 

The river floweth on. 



' I do remember watching 

Beside this river-bed. 
When on my childish knee was laid 

My dying father's head. 
I turned mine own, to keep the tears 

From falling on his face- — 
What doth it prove when Death and 
Love 

Choose out the self-same place ?' 

The river floweth on. 



' They .say the dead are joyful 
The death-change here receiving. 

Who say — ah, me ! — who dare to say 
Where joy comes to the living ? 

Thy boat, Nuleeni ! look not sad — • 
Light up the waters rather ! 



A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 



I weep no faithless lover where 
I wept a loving father.' 

The river floweth on. 



■ My heart foretold his falsehood 

Ere my little boat grew dim : 
And though I closed mine eyes to dream 

That one last dream of hhii. 
They .shall not now be wet to see 

The shining vision go : 
From earth's cold love I look above 

To the holy hou,se of snow.'* 

The river floweth on. 



' Come thou — thou never knewest 

A grief, that thou shouldst fear one ; 
Thou wearest still the happy look 

That shines beneath a dear one ! 
Thy humming-bird is m the sun,t 

Thy cuckoo m the grove ; 
And all the three broad worlds, for thee 

Are full of wandering love.' 

The river floweth on. 



' Why, maiden, dost thou loiter? 

What secret wouldst thou cover? 
That peepul cannot hide thy boat. 

And 1 can guess thy lover : 
I heard thee sob his name in sleep 

It was a name I knew — 
Come, little maid, be not afraid — 

But let us prove him true !' 

The river floweth on. 



The little maiden cometh — 
She cometh shy and slow : 

I ween she seeth through her lids, 
They drop adown so low : 

Her tresses meet her small bare feet — 



• The Hindoo heaven i« loculizeil on the 
snmmit of Mount Meru — one or the moun- 
tains of Himalaya or Himnipleh. which signi- 
fies, I believe, in Sanscrit, the abode of snow, 
winter, or coldness. 

t Hamadeva, the Indian sod of love. Is 
imagined to wander thron^h the three worlds, 
accompanied by the humming-bird, cncl<oo, 
and (gentle i»reezea. 



She stands and speaketh nought, 
Yet blusheth red, as if she said 
The name she only thought. 

The river floweth on 



She knelt beside the water. 

She lighted up the flame. 
And o'er her youthful forehead's calm 

The fitful radiance came ; — 
' Go, little boat ; go, soft and safe. 

And guard the symbol spark !' 
Soft, .safe, doth float the little boat 

Acrcss the waters dark. 

The river floweth on. 



Glad tears her eyes have blinded ; 

The light they cannot reach ; 
She turneth with that sudden smile 

She learnt before her speech — 
' I do not hear his voice ! the tears 

Have dimmed my light away ! 
But the symbol light will last to-night 

The love will last for aye.' 

The river floweth on. 



Then Luti spake behind her — 

Outspake she bitterly : 
' By the symbol light that lasts to-night. 

Wilt vow a vow to me ? ' — 
Nuleeni gazeth up her face — 

Soft answer maketh she : 
' By loves that last when lights are past, 

I vow that vow to thee !' 

The river floweth on. 



An earthly look had Luti 

Though her voice was deep as prayer : 
• The rice is gathered from the plains 

To cast upon thine hair !* 
But when he comes, his marriage band 

Around thy neck to throw. 
Thy bride-smile raise to meet his gaze, 
And whisper, — There is one betrays, 

Ji'hen Luti suffers woe.' 

The river floweth on. 



• The castine of rice upon the liead, and thu 
fixins of the band or tall ationt the neck, aro 
parts of the Hindoo marriage ceremonial. 



AN ISLAND. 



XIX. 

' And when in seasons after, 

Thy little bright-faced son 
Shall lean against thy knee and ask 

What deeds his sire hath done, 
Press deeper down thy mother-smile 

His glossy curls among — 
View deep his pretty childish eyes. 
And whisper, — There is noiic denies. 

When Luti speaks of wrong. ' 

The river floweth on. 



Nuleeni looked in wonder. 

Yet softly answered she — 
' By loves that last when lights are past, 

I vowed that vow to thee ; 
But why glads it thee that a bride-day 
be 
By a word of woe defiled ? 
That a word of wrong' take the cradle- 
song 
From the ear of a sinless child 1 ' — 
' IVhy! ' Luti said, and her voice was 
dread. 
And her eyes dilated wild — 
' That the fair new love may her bride- 
groom prove. 
And the father shame the child.' 

The river floweth on. 



' Thou flowest still, O river. 

Thou flowest 'neath the moon — 
The lily hath not changed a leaf,* 

Thy charmed lute a tune ! 
He mi.xed his voice with thine — and his 

Was all I heard around ; 
But now, beside his chosen bride, 

I hear the river's sound.' 

The river floweth on. 



' I gaze upon her beauty 

Through the tresses that enwreathe it : 
The light above thy wave is hers — 

My rest, alone beneath it. 
Oh, give me back the dying look 



• The Ganges 13 represented as a white wo- 
man, with a water lily in lier right hand, and 
In her lelt a lute. 



My father gave thy water I 
Give back ! — and let a little love 
O'erwatch his weary daughter ! ' 

1 he river floweth on. 



XXIII. 

' Give back I ' she hath departed — 

The word is wandering with her ; 
And the stricken maidens hear afar 

The step and cry together. 
Frail symbols ? None are frail enow 

For mortal joys to borrow ! — 
While bright doth float Nuleeni's boat. 

She wcepeth, dark with sorrow. 

The river floweth on. 



AN ISLAND. 



Mv dream is of an i.sland place 
Which distant seas keep lonely ; 

A little island, on whose face 
The stars are watchers only. 

Those bright still stars! they need not 
seem 

Brighter or stiller in my dream. 



An island full of hills and dells. 

All rumpled and uneven 
With green recesses, sudden swells. 

And odorous valleys driven 
So deep and straight, that always there 
The wind is cradled to soft air. 



Hills running up to heaven for light 
Through woods that half-way ran ! 

As if the wild earth mimicked right 
The wilder heart of man : 

Only it shall be greener far 

And gladder than hearts ever are. 



More like, perhaps, that mountain piece 

Of Dante's paradise, 
Disrupt to an hundred hills like these. 

In falling from the skies — 



A.V ISLAND. 



40 



Bringing within it all the roots 
Of heavenly trees and flowers and 
fruits. 



For saving where the grey rocks strike 

Their javelins up the azure, 
Or where deep fissures, miser-like, 

Hoard up some fountain treasure, 
(And e'en in them— stoop down and 

hear— 
Leaf sounds with water in your ear 1) 



The place is all awave with trees — 
Limes, myrtles purple-beaded ; 

Acacias having drunk the lees 
Of the night-dew, faint-headed ; 

And wan, grey olive-woods, which seem 

The fittest foliage for a dream. 



Trees, trees on all sides ! they combine 
Their plumy shades to throw ; 

Thro\igh whose clear fruit and blossom 
fine 
Whene'er the sun may go, 

The ground beneath he deeply stains, 

As passing through cathedral panes. 



But little needs this earth of ours 
That shining from above her, 

When many pleiades of flowers 
(Not one lost) star her over ; 

The rays of their unnumbered hues 

Being all refracted by the dews. 



Wide-petalled plants, that boldly drink 

The Amreeta of the sky ; 
Shut bells, that dull with rapture sink. 

And lolling buds, half shy ; 
I cannot count them ; but between, 
Is room for grass and mosses green, 



And hrooks, that glass in different 
strengths 

All colours in disorder. 
Or gathering up their silver lengths 

Beside their winding border 



Sleep, haunted through the slumber hid- 
den, 
By lilies white as dreams in Eden. 



Nor think each arched tree with each 

Too closely interlaces. 
To admit of vistas out of reach. 

And broad moon -lighted places, 
L^pon whose sward the antlered deer 
May view their double i nage cleir. 



For all this island's creature-full. 

Kept happy not by halves ; 
Mild cows that at the vine- wreaths pull, 

Tlien low back at then- calves 
With tender lowings, to approve 
The warm mouths milking them for love. 



Free gamesome horses, antelopes, 
And harmless leaping leopards, 

And buffaloes upon the slopes, 

And sheep unruled by shepherds : 

Hares, lizards, hedgehogs, badgers, 
mice. 

Snakes, squirrels, frogs, and butterflies. 



And birds that live there in a crowd — 
Horned owls, rapt nightingales. 

Larks bold with heaven, and peacocks 
proud. 
Self-sphered in those grand tails ; 

All creatures glad and safe, I deem : 

No guns nor springes in my dream 1 



The island's edges are a-wing 
With trees that overbranch 

The sea with song-birds welcoming 
The curlews to green change. 

And doves from half-closed lids espy 

The red and purple fish go by. 



One dove is answering in trust 
The water every minute. 

Thinking so soft a murmur must 
Have her mate's cooing in it : 

So softly does earth's beauty round 

Infuse Itself in ocean's sound. 



AN ISLAND. 



My sanguine soul bounds forwarder 
To meet the bounding waves ! 

Beside them straightway 1 repair. 
To hve within the caves ; 

And near me two or three may dwell 

Whom dreams fantastic please as well. 

XVIII. 
Long winding caverns ! glittering far 

Into a crystal distance ; 
Through clefts of which, shall many a 
star 
Shine clear without resistance, 
And carry down its rays the smell 
Of flowers above invisible. 



I said that two or three might choose 
Their dwelling near mine own : 

Those who would change man's voice 
and use 
For Nature's way and tone — 

Man's veering heart and careless eyes, 

For Nature's steadfast sympathies. 



Ourselves to meet her faithfulness, 
Shall play a faithful part : 

Her beautiful shall ne'er address 
The monstrous at our heart ; 

Her musical shall ever touch 

Something within us also such. 



Yet shall she not our mistress live, 
As doth the moon of ocean ; 

Though gently as the moon she give 
Our thoughts a light and motion. 

More like a harp of many lays, 

Moving its master while he plays. 

XXII. 

No sod in all that island doth 

Yawn open for the dead : 
No wind hath borne a traitor's oath ; 

No earth, a mourner's tread ; 
We cannot say by stream or shade, 
' I sufiered here — was here betrayed.' 



Our only 'farewell' we .shall laugh 
■ i'o shifting cloud or hour : 



And use our only epitaph 

To some bud turned a flower : 
Our only tears shall serve to prove 
Excess in pleasure or in love. 

XXIV. 

Our fancies shall their plumage catch 

From fairest island birds, 
Whose eggs let young ones out at hatch. 

Born .ringing ! then our words 
Unconsciously shall take the dyes 
Of these prodigious fantasies. 

XXV. 

Yea, scon, no consonant unsmooth 
Our smile turned lips shall reach : 

Sounds sweet as Hellas spake in youth 
Shall glide into our speech — 

(What music certes can you find 

As soft as voices which are kind ''.) 

XXVI. 

And often by the joy without 

And in us, overcome, 
We through our musing shall let float 

Such poems, — sitting dumb, — 
As Pindar might have writ, if he 
Had tended sheep in Arcady ; 

XXVII. 

Or yEschylus — the pleasant fields 
He died in, longer knowing ; 

Or Homer, had men's sins and shields 
Been lost in Meles flowing ; 

Or poet Plato, had the imdim 

Unsetting Godlight broke on him. 



Choose me the cave most worthy choice 
To make a place for prayer ; 

And I will choose a praying voice 
To pour our .spirits there. 

How silverly the echoes run — 

Thy will be done, — Thy will be done. 



Gently yet strangely uttered words ! — 
They lift me from my dream. 

The island fadeth with its swards 
That did no more than seem ! 

The streams are dry, no sun could find^~ 

The fruits are fallen, without wind 



THE DESER TED GARDE.W 



So oft the doing of God's will 

Our foolish wills undoeth ! 
And yet what idle dream breaks ill. 

Which morning light subdueth ; 
And who would murmur or misdoubt, 
When God's great sunrise finds him out ? 



THE DESERTED GARDEN. 

I MIND me in the days departed. 
How often underneath the sun 
With childish bounds I used to run 
To a garden long deserted. 

The beds and walks were vanished quite; 
And wheresoe'er had struck the spade. 
The greenest grasses Nature laid, 
To sanctify her right. 

I called the place my wilderness. 
For no one entered there but I. 
The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, 
And passed it ne'ertheless. 

The trees were interwoven wild. 
And spread their boughs enough about 
To keep both sheep and shepherd out. 
But not a happy child. 

Adventurous joy it was for me ! 
I crept beneath the boughs, and found 
A circle smooth of mossy ground 
Beneath a poplar tree. 

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, 
Bedropt with roses waxen-white 
Well satisfied with dew and light 
And careless to be seen. 

Long years ago it might befall, 
When all the garden flowers were trim, 
The grave old gardener prided him 
On these the most of all. 

Some Lady, .stately overmuch. 
Here moving with a silken noise, 
Has blushed beside them at the voice 
That likened her to such. 



Or these, to make a diadem. 

She often may have plucked and 

twined ; 
Half-smiling as it came to mind 
That few would look at tlicni. 

Oh, little thought that Lady proud, 
A child would watch her fair white rose. 
When buried lay her whiter brows, 
And silk was changed for shroud ! — 

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns 
For men unlearned and simple phrase,) 
A child would bring it all its praise. 
By creeping through the thorns ! 

To me upon my low moss seat, 
Though never a dream the roses sent 
Of science or love's compliment, 
I ween they smelt as sweet. 

It did not move my grief to see 
The trace of human step departed. 
Because the garden was deserted. 
The blither place for me ! 

Friends, blame me not ! a narrow ken. 
Hath childhood twixt the sun ana 

sward : 
We draw the moral afterward — 
We feel the gladness then. 

And gladdest hours for me did glide 
In silence at the rose-tree wall : 
A thrush made gladness musical 
Upon the other side. 

Nor he nor I did e'er incline 
To peck or pluck the blossoms white — 
How should I know but roses might 
Lead lives as glad as mine ? 

To make my hermit-house complete, 
I brought clear water from the spring 
Praised in its own low murmuring — 
And cresses glossy wet. 

And so, I thought my likeness grew 
(Without the melancholy tale) 
To 'gentle hermit of the dale,' 
And Angelina too 



53 



THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 



For oft I read within my nook 
Such minstrel stories ! till the breeze 
Made sounds poetic in the trees, — 
And then 1 shut the book. 

If I shut this wherein I write 
1 hear no more the wind athwart 
Those trees, — nor feel that childish heart 
Delighting in delight. 

My childhood from my life is parted, 
My footstep from the moss which drew 
Its fairy circle round : anew 
The garden is deserted. 

Another thrush may there rehearse 
The madrigals which sweetest are : 
No more for me ! — myself afar 
Do sing a sadder verse. 

Ah me, ah me ! when erst I lay 
In that child's-nest so greenly w/ought, 
I laughed imto myself and thought 
' The time will pass away. ' 

And still I laughed and did not fear 
liut that, whene'er was past away 
The childish time, some har-pier play 
My womanhood would cheer. 

I knew the time would pass away ; 
And yet, beside the rose-tree wall. 
Dear God, how seldom, if at all, 
Did 1 look up to pray ! 

The time is past : — and now that grows 
The cypress high among the trees. 
And I behold white sepulchres 
As well as the white rose, — 

When };ravef, mocker thoughts are 

given. 
And I have learnt to lift my face. 
Reminded how earth's greenest place 
The colour draws from heaven, — 

It something salth for earthly pain, 
But more for Heavenly promise free. 
That I who was. would shrink to be 
That happy child again. 



THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 

HSij foepous 
EteTaCTat rapcroa? 



I DWELL amid the city ever. 
The great humanity which beats 
Its life along the stony streets. 
Like a strong and unsunned river 
In a self-made course, 
I sit and hearken while it rolls. 
Very sad and very hoarse 
Certes is the flow of souls : 
Infinitest tendencies 
By the finite prest and pent. 
In the finite, turbulent 
How we tremble in surprise, 
When sometimes, with an awful sound, 
God's great plummet strikes the 
ground ! 



The champ of the steeds on the silver 

bit. 
As they whirl the rich man's carriage 

by : 
The beggar's whine as he looks at it, — 
But it goes too fast for charity. 
The trail on the street of the poor man's 

broom, 
I'hat the lady who walk-S to her palace- 
home, 
On her silken skirt may catch no dust : 
The tread of the business men who 

must 
Count their per cents, by the p.accs they 

take : 
The cry of the babe unheard of its 

mother 
Though it lie on her breast while she 

thinks of the other 
Laid yesterday where it will not wake. 
The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and 

pinks. 
Held out in the smoke, like. stars by day : 
The gin -door's oath that hollowly chinks 
Ciuilt upon grief and wrong upon hate : 
The caljman's cry to get out of the way ; 



THE SOUL'S TRAl'ELUNG. 



53 



The dustman's cry down the area- 
grate : 
The young maid's jest, and the old 

wife's scold, 
The haggling talk of the boys at a stall ; 
The fight in the street which is backed 

for gold. 
The plea of the lawyers in Westminster 

Hall : 
The drop on the stone of the blind man's 

staff 
Ashe trades in his own grief's sa;red- 

ness ; 
The brothel shriek and the Newgate 

laugh. 
The hum upon 'Change, and the organ's 

grinding. 
The grinder's face being nevertheless 
Dry and vacant of even woe. 
While the children's hearts are leaping 

so 
At the merry music's winding ! 
The black-plumed funeral's creeping 

train 
Long and slow (and yet they will go 
As fast as Life though it hurry and 

strain !) 
Creeping the populous houses through 
And nodding their plumes at either 

side, — 
At many a house where an infant, new 
To the sunshiny world, has just struggled 

and cried : 
At many a house, where sitteth a bride 
Trying the morrow's coronals 
With a scarlet blush to-day. 
Slowly creep the funerals, 
As none should hear the noise and say. 
The living, the living, must go away 

To multiply the dead ! 
H-irk ! an upward shout is sent ! 
In grave stron ? joy from tower to steeple 

The bells ring out — 
The trumpet; sound, the people shout. 
Th3 young Queen goes to her parlia- 
ment. 
She turneth round her large bhie eyes 
More bright with childish memories 
Than royal hopes, upon the people : 
On either side slie bows her head 

Lowly, with a Queenly grace, 
And smile mo^t trusting-innocent, 
A^ if she smiled upon her mother! 
"Ibe thousands press before each other 



To bless her to her face : 
And booms the deep majestic voice 
Through trump and drum, — ' May tlie v 
Queen rejoice 

In the people's liberties ! ' — 



I dwell amid the city. 
And hear the flow of souls in act 
and speech. 
For pomp or trade, for merrymake or 

folly : 
I hear the confluence and sum of each. 

And that is melancholy I — 
Thy voice is a complauit, O crowned 

city. 
The blue sky covermg thee like God's 
great pity. 



O blue sky ! it mindeth me 

Of places where I used to see 

Its vast unbroken circle thrown 

From the far pale-peaked hill 

Out to the List verge of ocean — 

As by God's arm it were done 

Then for the first time, with the emo. 

tion 
Of that first impulse on it still. 
Oh, we spirits fly at will. 
Faster than the winged steed 
Whereof in old book we read. 
With the sunlight foaming back 
From his flanks to a misty wrack. 
And his nostril reddening proud 
As he breasteth the steep thunder- 
cloud ! 
Smoother than Sabrina's chair 
Gliding up from wave to air. 
Which she smileth debonair 
Yet holy, coldly and yet brightly, 
Like her own mooned waters nightly, 
Through her dripping hair. 



Very fast and smooth we fly, 
Spirits, though the flesh be by. 
All looks feed not from the eye. 
Nor all hearings from the ear ; 
We can hearken and espy 
Without either ; we can journey. 
Bold and gay as knight to tourney. 



THE SOUL'S TR.W'ELLING. 



And though we wear no visor down 
I'o cark our countenance, the foe 
Shall never chafe us as we go. 



I am gone from peopled town ! 
It passeth iLs street-thunder round 
My body which yet hears no sound : 
For now another sound, another 
Vision, my soul's senses have. 
O'er a hundred valleys deep, 
Where tlie hills' green .shadows sleep, 
Scarce known, because the valley trees 
Cross those upland images — 
O'er a hundred hills, each other 
Watching to the western wave — 
I have travelled, — I have found 
The silent, lone, remembered ground. 



I have tound a gra.s.sy niche 

Hollowed in a seaside hill. 

As if the ocean-grandeur which 

Is aspectable from the place 

Had struck the hill as with a mace 

Sudden and cleaving. You. might fill 

That little nook with the litde cloud 

Which sometimes lieth by the moon 

To beautify a night of June : 

A cavehke nook, which, opening all 

To the wide sea, is disallowed 

From its own earth's sweet pastoral ; 

Cavelike, but roofless overhead. 

And made of verdant banks instead 

Of any rocks, with flowerets spread, 

Instead of spar and stalactite .... 

Such pretty flowers on such green sward. 

You think the sea they look toward 

Doth serve them for another sky 

As warm and blue as that on high. 

VIII. 

And in this hollow is a seat, 
And when you shall have crept to it. 
Slipping down the banks too steep 
'i'o be o'crbrowzed by the sheep, 
Do not think — though at your feet 
The cliff's disrupt — you shall behold 
The line where earth and ocean meet ; 
You sit too much above to view 
The solemn confluence of the two : 
You can hear them as they greet ; 
Vou can hear that evermore 



Distance-softened noise, more old 

Than Nereid's suiging, — the tide spent 

Joining soft issues with the shore 

In harmony of discontent, — 

And when you hearken to the grave 

Lamenting of the underwave, 

You must believe in earth's communion. 

Albeit you witness not the union. 



E.xcept the sound, the place is full 

Of silences, which when you cull 

By any word, it thrills you so 

That presently you let them grow 

To meditation's fullest length 

Across your soul with a soul's strength : 

And as they touch your soul, they 

borrow 
Both of its grandeur and its sorrow, 
That deathly colour which the clay 
Leaves on its deathlessness alway. 



Alway ! alway ! must this be ? 

Rapid Soul from city gone. 

Dost thou carry inwardly 

What dctli make the city's moan? 

Must this deep sigh of thine own 

Haunt thee with humanity? 

Green- vision cd banks that are too steep 

To be o'erbrowzed by the sheep. 

May all sad thoughts adown you creep 

Without a shepherd ? — Mighty sea. 

Can we dwarf thy magnitude. 

And fit it to our straitest mood? — 

O fair, fair Nature ! are we thus 

Impotent and querulous 

Among thy workings glorious, 

Wealtli and sanctities. — that still 

Leave us vacant and defiled, 

And wailing like a soft-kissed child. 

Kissed soft against his will ? 



God, God ! 
With a child's voice I cry, 
Weak, sad, confidingly — 
(;od. God i 
Thou knovvest eyelids raised not alway* 

>ip , 
Unto Thy love, {as none of ours arc,') 
droop 
As ours, o'er many a tear 1 



I'hou knowest, though thy universe is 
broad. 

Two Httle tears suffice to cover alh 

Thou knowest, — Thou, who art so prodi- 
gal 

Of beauty, — We are oft but stricken 
deer 

Expiring in the woods — that care for 
none 

Of those delightsome flowers they die 
upon. 

XII. 
O blissful Mouth, which breathed the 

mournful breath 
We name our souls, — self-spoilt! — by 

that strong passion 
Which paled thee once with sighs, — by 

that strong death 
Which made thee once unbreathing — 

from the wrack 
Themselves have called around them, 

call them back, 
Back to thee in continuous aspiration ! 

For here, O Lord, 
For here they travel vainly, — vainly 

pass 
From the city pavement to untrodden 

sward, 
Where the lark finds her deep nest in the 

grass 
Cold with the earth's last dew. Yea, 

very vain 
The greatest speed of all the souls of 

men. 
Unless they travel upward to the throne 
Where sittest Thou the satisfying One, 
With help for sins and holy perfectings 
For all requirements — while the archan- 
gel, raising 
Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing, 
Forgets the rush and rapture of his 

wings. 



SOUNDS. 



Hfcoixras tj ovk riKovcrai ; . , 

jEsCHYLUS, 



Heakkhn^ hearken ! 
The rapid river carrieth 



Many noises underneath 

The hoary ocean : 
Teaching his solemnity 
Sounds of inland life and glee. 
Learnt beside the waving tree. 
When the winds in summer prank 
Toss the shades from bank to bank. 
And the quick rains, in emotion 
Which rather gladdens earth than 

grieves. 
Count and visibly rehearse 
The pulse of the universe 
Upon the Summer leaves — 
Learnt among the lilies straight. 
When they bow them to the weight 
Of many bees whose hidden hum 
Seemeth from themselves to come^ 
Learnt among the grasses green. 
Where the rustling mice are seen 
By the gleaming, as they run, 
Of their quick eyes in the sun ; 
And lazy .sheep are browzing through. 
With their noses trailed m dew ; 
And the squirrel leaps adown. 
Holding fast the filbert brown ; 
And the lark, with more of mirth 
In his song that suits the earth, 
Droppeth some in soaring high. 
To pour the rest out in the sky : 
While the woodland doves, apart 
In the copse's leafy heart. 
Solitary, not a.scetic. 
Hidden and yet vocal seem 
Joining in a lovely psalm, 
Man's despondence, nature's calm. 
Half mystical and half pathetic. 
Like a sighing in a dream.* 
All these sounds the river telleth. 
Softened to an undertone 
Which ever and anon he svvelleth 



• "While floatiiij; ii|i bright forms iilenl, 

Miatieas, or liienrt, aroiuiil me Btream ; 
Half seime-sllpplied, and lialf miieal, 
Like music mingling witli a dieam." 

.'o//» Keiiyon. 
I (in not (lonbt tliat the " mnsir" of tlie two 
condurtinK lines mingleil, tliouKli very nm oii- 
8cion8ly, witli my own " dream," -".nd jravo 
their form and iiiessiire to the al ovc iliBllch. 
The ideas, however, IieinK Kiiffirienlly dis- 
tinct, I am satisfied witli Rendine this note to 
tile press after my verses, and with arliliow- 
ledgint; another ohltKation to the vaiuwl 
friend to wlioui I already owe so many. 



56 



SOUNDS. 



By a burden of his own. 

In the ocean's ear. 
Ay ! and ocean seems to hear 
With an inward gentle scorn, 
SmiUng to his caverns worn. 



Hearken, hearken ! 
The child is shonting at his play 
Just in the tramping funeral's way : 
The widow moans as she turns aside 
To shun the face of the blushing bride, 
While, shaking the tower of the ancient 

church. 
The marriage bells do swing : 
And in the shadow of the porch 
An idiot sits, with his lean hands full 
Of hedgerow flowers and a poet's skull. 
Laughing loud and gibbering, 
Hjcause it is so brown a thing, 
V>' hile he sticketh the gaudy poppies red 
In and out the senseless head 
Where all sweet fancies grew instead. 
And you may hear, at the self-same time. 
Another poet who reads his rhyme, 
Lo.v as a brook in the summer air, — 
Save when he droppeth his voice adown. 
To dream of the amaranthine crown 
His mjrtal brows shall wear. 
And a baby ciies with a feeble sound 
'r>ieath the weary weight of the life 

new-found ; 
And an old man groans, — with his 

testament 
Only half signed, — for the life that's 
spent : 

And lovers twain dc softly say, 

As they sit on a grave, ' for aye, for 
aye !' 

And frjemen twain, while Earth their 
mother 

Looks greenly upward, curse each other. 

A school-boy drones his task, with looks 

Cast over the page to the elm-tree 
rooks : 

A lonely student cries aloud 

Eurckii ! clasping at his shrcid , 

A beldame's age-cracked voice doth sing 

To a little infant slumbering : 

A maid forgotten weeps alone. 

Muffling her sobs on the trysting stone ; 

A sick man wakes at his own mouth's 
wail ; 



A go.ssip coughs in her thrice told tale ; 
A muttering gamester shakes the dice : 
A reaper foretells goodluck from the 

skies ; 
A monarch vows as he lifts his hand to 

them ; 
A patriot leaving his native land ta 

them. 
Cries to the world against perjured 

state : 
A priest disserts upon linen skirts ; 
A sinner screams for one hope more ; 
A dancer's feet do palpitate 
A piper's music cut on the floor ; 
And nigh to the awful Dead, the living 
Low speech and stealthy steps are 

giving. 
Because he cannot hear ; 
And lie who on that narrow bier 
Has room enow, is closely wound 
In a silence piercing more than sound. 



Hearken, hearken ! 
God speaketh to thy soul ; 
Using the supreme voice which doth 

confound 
All life with consciousnes:; of Deity, 

All senses into one ; 
As the seer-saint of Patmos, loving John, 

For whom did backward roll 
The cloud-gate of the future, turned to 

see 
The 'Voice which spake. It speaketh 

now — 
Through the regular breath of the calm 

creation. 
Through the moan of the creature's 

desolation 
Striking, and in ita stroke, resembling 
The memory of a solemn vow. 
Which pierceth the din of a festival 
To one in the midst, — and he letteth fall 
The cup, with a sudden trembling. 



Hearken, he.arken ! 
God speaketh in thy soul ; 
Saying, ' O thou that niovest 
With feeble steps across this earth of 

mine. 
To break beside the fount thy i;olden 
bowl 



NIGHT AND THE MERRY MAN. 



And spill its purple wine, — ■ 

Look up to heaven and see how like a 
scroll, 

My right hand hath thine immortality 

In an eternal grasping ! Thou, that 
lovest 

The songful birds and grasses underfoot, 

A.id also what change mars and tombs 
pollute — • 

/ am the end of love ! — give love to vie ! 

O thou that sinnest, grace doth more 
abound 

Than all thy sin! sit still beneath my 
rood, 

And count the droppings of my victim- 
blood. 
And seek none other sound !' 



Hearken, hearken ! 
Shall we hear the lapsing river 
And our brother's sighing ever. 
And not the voice of God ? 



NIGHT AND THE MERRY MAN. 



'Neath my moon what doest thou. 
With a somewhat paler brow 
Than she givelh to the ocean? 
He, without a pulse or motion. 
Muttering low before her stands, 
Lifting his invoking hands. 
Like a seer before a sprite. 
To citch her oracles of light. 
B It thy soul out-trembles now 
Miny pulses on thy brow ! 
Where be all thy laughters clear. 
Others laughed alone to hear ? 
Where, thy quaint jests, said for fame ? 
Where, thy dances, mixed with game '? 
Where, thy festive comoanies, 
MoiniJ o'c w th ladieV eyes. 
All more brii^ht for thee. I trow ! 
'Neath my moon, what doest thou? 

THE MERRY MAN. 

I am digging my warm heart. 
Till I find its coldest part : 



I am diggmg wide and low 
Farther than a spade will go ; 
Till that, when the pit is deep 
And large enough. I there may heap 
All my present pain and past 
Joy, dead things that look aghast 
By the daylight. — Now 'tis done! 
Throw them in, by one and one ! 
I mast laugh, at rising sun. 

Memories — of fancies golden 

Treasures which my hands have holden. 

Till the chillness made them ache : 

Of childhood's hopes, that used to wake 

If birds were in a singing strain. 

And for le s cause, sleep again : 

Of the moss seat in the wood. 

Where I trysted solitude ! 

Of the hill-top, where the wind 

Used to follow me behind. 

Then in sudden rush to blind 

Bjth my glad eyes with my hair. 

Taken gladly in the snare ! 

Of the climbing up the rocks, — 

Of the playing 'neath the oaks. 

Which retain beneath them now 

Only shadow of the bough : 

Of the lying on the grass 

While the clouds did overpass. 

Only they, so lightly driven. 

Seeming betwi.xt me and heaven ! 

Of the little prayers serene. 

Murmuring of earth and sin : 

Of large-leaved philosophy 

Leaning from my childish knee : 

Of poetic book sublime, 

So'll-kissed for the first dear time, — 

Greek or English, — ere I knew 

Life was not a poem too ! 

Throw them in. by one and one ! 

I must laugh, at rising sun. 

Of the glorious ambitions. 
Yet unquenched by their fruitions; 
Of the reading out the nights ; 
Of the straining of mad heights ; 
Of achievements, less descried 
By a dear few, than magnified ; 
Of praises, from the many earned. 
When priise from Inve wasimdiscerned ; 
Of the sweet reflecting gladness. 
Softened by itsidf to sadness. — 
Throw them in by one and one ! 
I must laugh, at rising sun. 



58 



EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 



What are these ? more, more than these 1 
Throw in, dear memories ! — 
Of voices — whereof but to speak, 
Maketh muie all sunk and weak ? 
Of smiles, the thought of which is 

sweeping 
All my soul to floods of weeping ; 
Of looks, whose absence fain would 

weigh 
My looks to the ground for aye ; 
Of claspmg hands — ah me ! I wring 
Mme and in a tremble fling 
Downward, downward, all this paining ! 
Partings, with the sting remainnig ; 
Meetuigs, with a deeper throe. 
Since the joy is ruined so ; 
Changes, with a fiery burning — 
(Shadows upon all the turning.) 



Thoughts of — with a storm they came- 
Theiii, I have not breath to name ! 
Downward, downward be they cast. 
In the pit ! and now at last 
My work Ijeneath the moon is done. 
And I shall laugh, at rising sun, 

But let me pause or ere I cover 
All my treasures darkly over. 
I will speak not in thine ears. 
Only tell my beaded tears 
Silently, most silently ! 



When the last is calmly told. 
Let that same moist rosary. 
With the rest sepulchred be. 
Finished now. 'J'he darksome mould 
Sealeth up the darksome pit 
I will lay no stone on it : 
Grasses I will sow instead, 
Fit for Queen f-itania's tread : 
Flowers, encoloured with the sun, 
And at at written upon none. 
Thus, whenever .faileth by 
The Lady World of dainty eye. 
Not a grief shall here remain. 
Silken shoon to damp or stain : 
And while she lisps, ' 1 have not seen 
Any place more smooth and clean ' 
Here she cometh ! — Ha, ha ! — who 
I-aughs as loud as I can do % 



EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 

I. 

The Earth is old ; 
Six thousand winters make her heart 

a-cold. 
The sceptre slanteth from her palsied 

hold. 
She saith ' 'Las me ! — God's word that I 

was ' good ' 
Is taken back to heaven. 
From whence when any sound comes, I 

am riven 
By some sharp bolt. And now no angel 

would 
Descend with sweet dew-silence on my 

mountains. 
To glorify the lovely river-fountains 

That gush along their side. 
I see, O weary change! 1 see instead 

This human wrath and pride. 
These thrones and tombs, judicial wrong, 

and blood : 
And bitter words are poured upon mine 

head — 
' O Earth ! thou art a stage for tricks 

unholy, 
A church for most remorseful melan- 
choly ! 
Thou art so spoiled, we should forget we 

had 
An Eden in thee, — wert thou not so sad.' 
Sweet children, I am old ! ye, every 

one. 
Do keep me from a portion of my sun : 
Give praise in change for brightness ! 
That I may shake my hills in infinite- 

ness 
Of breezy laughter, as in youthful mirth. 
To hear Earth's sons and daughters 

praising Earth.' 



Whereupon a child began, 
With spirit running up to man. 
As by angel's shining ladder, 
(May he find no cloud above !) 
Seeming he liad ne'er been sadder 

All his days than now — 
Sitting in the chestnut grove, 
With that joyous overflow 



EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 



59 



Of smiling from liis mouth, o'er brow 
And cheek and chin, as if the breeze 
Leaning tricksy from the trees 
To part his golden hairs, had blown 
Into an hundred smiles that one. 



' O rare, rare Earth ! ' he s.nith, 

' I will praise thee presently ; 

Not to-day ; 1 have no breath ! 

I have hunted squirrels three — 
Two ran down in the furzy hollow, 
Where I could not see nor follow ; 
One sits at the top of the filbert tree. 
With a yellow nut, and a mock at me. 

Presently it shall be done. 
When I see which way those two 

have run ; 
When the mocking one at the filbert 

top 
Shall leap a-down, and beside me 
stop ; 
Then, rare Earth, rare Earth, 
Will I pause, having known thy 
worth. 
To say all good of thee ! ' 



Next a lover, with a dream 
'Neath his waking eyelids hidden. 
And a frequent sigh unbidden. 
And an idlesse all the day 
Beside a wandering stream ; 
And a silence that is made 
Of a word he dares not say, — 
Shakes slow his pensive head. 

'Earth, Eartlr! ' saith he, 
'If thy spirits, like thy roses, grew 
On one stalk, and winds austere 
Could but only blow them near. 

To share each other's dew ; 
If, when summer rains agree 
To beautify thy hills, I knew 
Looking off them 1 might see 

Some one very beauteous too, — 
'Then, Earth,' saith he, 
' I would praise . . . nay, nay — not 
thee ! ' 



Will the pedant name her nextl 
Crabbed with a crabbed text. 
Sits he in his study nook, 



With his elbow on a book. 
And with stately crossed knees. 
And a wrinkle deeply thrid 
Through his lowering brow. 
Caused by making proofs enow 
That Plato in ' Parmenides ' 
Meant the same Spinosa did ; 
Or, that an hundred of the groping 
Like himself, had made one Homer, 
Hoinei-os being a misnomer. 
What hath he to do with praise 
Of Earth, or aught ? whene'er the 

sloping 
Sunbeams through his window daze 
His eyes off from the learned phrase, 
Straightway he draws close the cur- 
tain. 
May abstraction keep him dumb I 
Were his lips to ope, 'tis certain 
" Derivatum est " would come. 



Then a mourner moveth pale 
In a silence full of wail, 
Raising not his sunken head. 
Because he wandered last that way 
With that one beneath the clay : 
Weeping not, because that one. 
The only one who would have said, 
' Cease to weep, beloved ! ' has gon« 
Whence returneth comfort none. 
The silence breaketh .suddenly, — 
' Earth, I praise thee ! ' crieth he : 
' Thou hast a grave for also me' 



Ha, a poet ! know him by 
The ecstasy-dilated eye, 
Not uncharged with tears that ran 
Upward from his heart of man ; 
By the cheek, from hour to hour, 
Kindledbright Or sunken wan 
With a sense of lonely power ; 
By the brow, uplifted higher 
Than others, for more low declining 
By the lip which words of fire 
Overboiling, have burned white, 
While they gave the nations light '. 
Ay, in every time and place 
Ye may know the poet's face 
By the shade, or ^hiBing. 



EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 



'Neath a golden cloud he stands, 

Spreading his impassioned hands. 

• O God s Earth !'' he sauh, ' the sign 

Fro.n the t'ather-soul to mine 

Of all beauteoLU mysteries, 

Of all perfect images, 

Which, divine in His divine, 

In my human only are 

Very excellent and fair ;— 

Think not. Earth, that I would raise 

Weary forehead in thy praise, 

(Weary that I cannot go 

Farther from thy region low,) 

If were struck no richer meanings 

From thee th.in thyself. The leanings 

Of the clo;^ trees o'er the brim 

Of a siin^hine-haimted stream. 

Have a sound beneath their leaves, 

Not of wind, not of wind, 
Which thj poet's voice achieves, 
Tne faint mountains heaped behind, 
Have a falling on their tops. 

Not of dew, not of dew. 
Which the poet's fancy drops. 
Viewless things his eyes can view : 
Driftings of his drpams do light 
All the skies by day and night : 
And the seas that deepest roll, 
Carry murmurs of his soul. 
Earth, [ praise thee I praise thou inc .' 
God perfecteth his creation 
With this recip;cnt poet-passion. 
And make; the beautiful to be. 
I praise thee, O beloved sign, 
From the God-so. il unto mine 1 
Praise me, that I cast on thee 
The cunning sweet interpretation, 
The help and glory nnd dilation 

Of mine immortality I ' 



There was silence. None did dare 
To use again the spoken air 
Of that far-charming voice, until 
A Christian re..iting an the hill. 
With a thoughtful smile subdued 
(S^eminj learnt in solitude) 
Which .1 weeper might have viewed 
Without new tears, did softly say. 
And looked up unto heaven alway 
While he praised the Earth — 



■O Earlh, 
I count the praises thou art worth. 
By thy waves that move aloud. 
By thy hills against the cloud. 
By thy valleys warm and green. 
By thy copses' elms between ; 
By their b,rds which, like a sprite 
Scattered by a strong delight 
Into fragments musical, 
Stir and sing m every bash ; 
By thy silver founts that fall. 
As if to entice the stars at night 
To thme heart ; by grass and rush. 
And little weeds the children pull. 
Mistook for flowers I 

— Oh, beautiful 
Art thou. Earth, albeit worse 
Than in heaven is called good I 
Good to U-, that we may know 
Meekly from thy good to go ; 
While the holy, crying Blood 
Puts its music kind and low, 
'Twixt such ears as are not dull. 
And thine ancient curse 1 



' Praised be the mosses soft 

In thy forest pathways oft. 

And the thorn.s, which make us think 

Of the thornless river-brink, 

Where the ran.somed tread I 
Praised be thy sunny gleams. 
And the storm, that worketh dreams 

Of calm unfinished I 
Praised be thine active days. 
And thy night-time's solemn need. 
When in God's dear book we read 

No niglit sliall be thcrci7i. 
Praised be thy dweHings warm, 
By household fagot's cheerful blaze. 
Where, to hear of pardoned sin, 
Pauseth oft the merry din. 
Save the babe's upon the arm, 
Who croweth to the crackling wood. 
Yea, — and better understood, 
Praised be thy dwellings cold. 
Hid beneath the churchyard mould. 
Where the bodies of the saints. 
Separate from earthly taints, 
Lie asleep, in blessing bound, 
VVaiting for the trumpet's sound 
To free them into blessing ; — none 
I Weeping more beneath the .sun. 



THE r/RGhV MARY TO THE CHH.D JESHS. 



Though dangerous words of human love 
Be graven very near, above. 



* Earth, we Christians praise thee thus, 
Even for the chan'^e that comes, 
With a grief, from thee to us 1 
For thy cradles and thy tombs ; 
For the pleasant corn and wine. 
And summer-neat ; and also for 
The frost upon the sycamore, 
And hail upon the vine !' 



THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE 
CHILD JESUS. 

But see, llie Virgin blest 
Hiitli liiid liur liaUe to rest. 

Milton's Hijmh uii the NatbiUu. 



Sleep, sleep, mine Holy One ! 
My fiesh, my Lord ! — what name ? 1 do 

not know 
A name that seemeth not too high or 
low. 
Too far from me or Heaven. 
My Jesus, thai '\s\>esX\ that word being 

given 
By the irajestic angel whose command 
Was softly as a man's beseeching said, 
When I and all the earth appeared to 
Stan d 
In the great overflow 
Of light celestial from his wings and 
head. 
Sleep, sleep, my saving One I 



And art Thou come for saving, baby- 
browed 

And speechless Being — art Thou come 
for saving ? 

The palm that grows beside our door is 
bowed 

By treadings of the low wind from the 
south, 

A restless shadow through the chamber 
waving : 

L^pon its bough a bird sings in the sun ; 

But Thou, with that close slumber on 
thy mouth. 



I Dost seem of wind and sun nlreaiiy 
weary. 
Art come for saving, O my weary One ? 

III. 
Perchance this sleep that shuttetK out 

the dreary 
Earth-sounds and motions, opens on Thy 

soul 
High dreams on fire with God ; 
High songs that make the pathways 

where they roll 
More bright than stars do theirs ; and 

visions new 
Of Thine eternal Nature's old abode. 
Suffer this mother's kiss, 
Best thing that earthly is. 
To guide the music and the glory 

through. 
Nor narrow in Thy dream the broad up- 

liftings 
Of any seraph wing ! 
Thus, noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep, m-/ 

dreaming One I 



The slumber of His lips meseems to ruj 
Through my lips to mine heart ; to all 

its shiftings 
Of sensual life, bringing contrariousness 
In a great calm. I feel, \ could lie 

down 
As Moses did, and die,* — and then live 

most. 
I am 'ware of you, heavenly Presences, 
That stand with your peculiar light un- 

lost, 
E.ach forehead with a high thought for 

a crown. 
Unsunned i' the sunshine ! I am 'ware. 

Yet throw 
No shade against the wall ! How mo- 
tionless 
Ye round me with your living statuary. 
While through your whitenes.s, in and 

outwardly. 
Continual thoughts of God appear to go. 
Like light's soul in itself! I bear, I 

bear. 



• It is a Jewish tradition tlmt Moses ilie.l of 
t!ie ItiSAes of G<ni'8 li(»a 



62 



THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS. 



To look upon the dropt lids of your eyes, 
Though their external shuiing testifies 
To that beatitude withui, which were 
Enough to blast an eagle at his sun. 
I fall not on my sad 'clay face before ye ; 

I look on His. I know 
My spirit which dilateth with the woe 

Of His mortality. 

May well contain your glory. 

Yea, drop your lids more low. 
Ve are but fellow-worshippers with me ! 

Sleep, sleep, my worshipped One I 



We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem. 
The dumb kine from their fodderturning 
them, 

Softened their horned faces 

To almost human gazes 

Towards the newly Born. 
The simple shepherds from the star-lit 
brooks 

Brought visionary looks, 
As yet in their astonished hearing rung 

The strange, sweet angel-tongue. 
The magi of the East, in sandals worn, 

Knelt reverent, sweeping round, 
With long pale beards their gifts upon 
the ground, 

The incense, myrrh and gold. 
These baby hands were impotent to 

hold. . 
So, let all earthlies and celestials wait 

Upon thy royal state ! 

Sleep, sleep, my kingly One ! 



I am not proud — meek angels, ye invest 
New meeknesses to hear such utterance 

rest 
On mortal lips, — * I am not proud ' — not 

proud ! 
Albeit in my flesK God sent His Son, 
Albeit over Him my head is bowed 
As others bow before Him, still mine 

heart 
Bows lower than their knees. O centu- 
ries 
That roll, in vision, your futurities 

My future grave athwart, — 
Whose murmurs seem to reach mc while 
I keep 
Watch o'er this sleep, — 



Say of me as the Heavenly said, — ' Thou 

art 
The blessedest of women ! ' — blessedest. 
Not holiest, not noblest — no high name. 
Whose height misplaced may pierce me 

like a shame, 
When 1 sit meek in heaven ! 

F"or me — for me — 
God knows that 1 am feeble like the 

rest ! — 
I often wandered forth, more child than 

maiden. 
Among the midnight hills of Galilee, 

Whose summits looked heaven-laden ; 
Listening to silence as it seemed to be 
God's voice, so soft yet strong — so fain 

to press 
Upon my heart as Heaven did on the 

height, 
And waken up its shadows by a light. 
And show its vileness by a holiness. 
I'hen I knelt down most silent like the 

night. 
Too self-renounced for fears. 
Raising my small face to the boundless 

blue 
Whose stars did mi.\ and tremble in my 

tears. 
God heard them falling after — with His 

dew. 

VIII. 

So, seeing my corruption, can I see 
This Incorruptible now born of me — 
This fair new Innocence no suii did 

chance 
To shine on, (for even Adam was no 

child.) 
Created from my nature all defiled. 
This mystery from out mine ignorance — 
Nor feel the blindnes.s, stain, corruption, 

more 
Than others do, or / did heretofore ? — 
Can hands wherein such burden pure has 

been. 
Not open with the cry 'unclean un- 
clean ! ' 
More oft than any else beneath the 

skies ? 
Ah King, ah Christ, ah son ! 
'l"hc kine, the shepherds, the abased 

wise. 



L 






1 




MLMOKV . 


-INU HORK. 63 






Must all less lowly wait 


I must not die, with mother's work to 






Than I, upon thy state ! — 


do. 






Sleep, sleep, my kingly One ! 


And could not live — and see. 






IX. 


XII. 






Art Thou a King, then ? Come, His 


It is enough to bear 






universe. 


This image still and fair — 






Come, crown me Him a king ! 


This holier in sleep. 






Pluck rays from all such stars as never 


Than a .saint at prayer : 






fling 


This aspect of a child 






Their light where fell a curse. 


Who never sinned or smiled — 






And make a crowning for this kingly 


This presence in an infant's face : 






brow !— 


This sadness most like love. 






JVhat is my word ? — Each empyreal 


This love than love more deep. 






star 


This weakness like omnipotence. 






Sits in a sphere afar 


It is so strong to move ! 






In shining ambuscade : 


Awful is this watching place, 






The child-brow, crowned by none. 


Awful what I see from hence — 






Keeps its unchildlike shade. 


A king, without regalia. 






Sleep, sleep, my crownle s One ! 


A God, without the thunder, 

A child, without the heart for play ; 






X. 


Ay, a Creator rent asunder 






Unchildlike shade ! — no other babe doth 


From his first glory and cast away 






wear 


On His own world, for me alone 






An a,spect very sorrowful, as Thou.— 


To hold in hands created, crying — Son ! 






No small babe-smiles, my watching heart 








has seen. 


XIII. 






To float like speech the speechl&ss lips 


That tear fell not on Thee 






between ; 


Beloved, yet Thou stirrest in thy .slum- 






No dovelike cooing in the golden air. 


ber ! 






No quick short joys of leaping baby- 


Thou, stirring not for glad sounds out < f 






hood. 


number 






Alas, our earthly good 


Which through the vibratory palm tree* 






In heaven thought evil, seems too good 


run 


1 




for Thee : 


From summer wind and bird. 


\ 




Yet, sleep, my weary One ! 


So quickly hast Thou heard 
A tear fall silently ?— 






XI. 


Wak'st Thou, O loving One ? — 






And then the drear sharp tongue of 








prophecy, 








With the dread sense of things which 








shall be done. 


MEMORY AND HOPE. 






Doth smite me inly, like a sword — a 








sword ? — 


I. 






{ That ' smites the Shepherd ! ') then, I 


B.^CK-LOOKiNG Memory 






think aloud 


And prophet Hope both sprang from 






The words 'despised,' — 'rejected,' — 


out the ground : 






every word 


One, where the flashing of Cherubic 






Recoiling into darkness as T view 


sword 






The Darling on my knee. 


Fell .sad, in Eden's ward ; 






Bright angels, — move not ! — lest ye stir 


And one, from Eden earth, within the 






the cloud 


sound 






Betwixt my soul and His futurity ! 


Of the four rivers lapsing pleasantly, 


._ 









64 



MEMORY AND HOPE. 



What time the promise after curse was 
said — 
'I'hy seed shall bruise his head.' 



Poor Memory's brain is wild. 
As moonstruck by that flaming 

atmosphere 
When she was born. Her deep eyes 
shine and shone 
With light that conquereth sun 
And stars to wanner paleness year by 

year : 
With odorous gums, she mixeth things 

defiled : 
She trampleth down earth's grasses 
green and sweet 
With her far-wandering feet. 



She plucketh many flowers, 
Their beauty on her bosom's coldness 

killing : 
She teacheth every melancholy sound 

To winds and waters round : 
She droppeth tears with seed where 

man is tilling 
The rugged soil in his exhausted hours : 
She smileth — ah me ! in her smile doth 

go 
A mood of deeper woe 1 



Hope tripped on out of sight 
Crowned with an Eden wreath she saw 

not wither. 
And went a-nodding through the wilder- 
ness 
With brow that shone no less 
Than a sea-gull's wing, brought nearer 

by rough weather ; 
Searching the treeless rock for fruits of 

light ; 
Her fair quick feet being armed from 
stones and cold. 
By slippers of pure gold.' 



Memory did Hope much wrong 
And, while she dreamed, her slippers 
stole away ; 



Cut still she wended on with mirth 
unheeding, 
Although her feet were bleeding ; 
Till Memory tracked her on a certain 

day, 
And with most evil eyes did search her 

long 
And cruelly, whereat she sank to ground 
In a stark deadly swoimd. 



And so my Hope were slain, 
Had it not been that thou wert 
standing near, • 

Oh Thou, who saidest ' live ' to creatures 
lying 
In their own blood and dying 1 
For Thou her forehead to thine heart 

didst rear 
And make its silent pulses sing again, — 
Pouring a new light o'er her darkened 
eyne. 
With tender tears from Thine ! 



Therefore my Hope arose 
From out her swound, and gazed upon 

Thy face ; 
And, meeting there that soft subduing 
look 
Which Peter's spirit shook, 
Sank downward in a rapture to embrace 
Thy pierced hands and feet with kis.;es 

close. 
And prayed Thee to assist her evermore 
To 'reach the things before.' 



Then gavest Thou the smile 
Whence angel-wings thrill quick like 

summer lightning. 
Vouchsafing rest beside Thee, where 
she never 
From Love and Faith may sever ; 
Whereat the Eden crown she saw not 

whitening 
A time ago, though whitening all the 

while. 
Reddened with life, to hear the Voice 
which talked 
To Adam as he walked. 



A rOR TRAIT. 



A PORTRAIT. 

»One name i» F.liziibelh."— Ben Joxaox. 

1 VILL paint her as I see her : 
Ten times have the lilies blown, 
Since she looked upon the sun. 

And her face is lily-clear — 
Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading off to air : 

And a forehead fair and saintly, 
Which two blue eyes undershine, 
Like meek prayers before a shrine. 

Face and figure of a child, — 

Though too calm, you thuik, and ten- 
der. 
For the childhood you would lend her. 

Yet child-simple, undefiled, 
Frank, obedient,— waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 

Moving light, as all young things — 
As young birds, or early wheat 
When the wind blows over it. 

Only free from flutterings 

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure — 
Taking love for her chief pleasure ; 

Choosing ple.isures (for the rest) 
Which come softly — ^just as ske, 
When she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she liketh best. 
In a bower of gentle looks, — 
Watering flowers, or reading books. 

And her voice, it murmurs lowly. 
As a silver stream may run. 
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 

And her smile, it seems half holy, 
As if drawn from thoughts more fair 
Than our common jestings are. 



And if any poet knew her. 

He would sing of her with falls 
Used in lovely madrigals. 

And if any painter drew her. 
He would pain'c her unaware 
With a halo round her hair. 

And if reader read the poem. 

He would whisper — ' You have done a 
Consecrated little Una ! ' 

And a dreamer (did you show him 
That same picture) would exclaim, 
' 'Tis my angel, with a name ! ' 

And a stranger, — when he sees her 
In the street even — smileth stilly, 
Just a.)^ you would at a lily. 

And all voices that address her. 
Soften, sleeken every word. 
As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 

The hard earth whereon she passes. 
With the thymy scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray. 'God love her I' - 
Ay, and always, in good sooth. 
We may all be sure He doth. 



HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. 



Nine years old I The fir.st of any 
Seem the happiest years that come : 
Yet when / was nine, I said 
No such word I — I thought ir.stead 

That the Greeks had used as ir.any 
In besieging Ilium. 



Nine green years had .scarcely brou^lit 
me 
To my childhood's haunted spring ' 
I had life, like flowers and bees 
In betwixt the country trees ; 

And the sun the pleasure taught me 
Which he teacheth every thing. 



HECTOR I.V TJfF. GAKDEiV. 



If the rain fell, there was sorrow 
Little head leant on the pane, 
Little finger drawing down it 
The Ions trailing drops upon it. 

And the ' Rain, ram, come to-morrow. 
Said for charm against the rain. 



Such a charm was right Canidian, 

Though you meet it with a jeer 

If I said it long enough. 

Then the rain hummed dimly off, 
And the thrush with his pure Lydian 

Was left only to the ear : 



And the sun and I together 
Went a-rushing out of doors : 
We, our tender spirits, drew 
Over hill and dale in view, 

Glimmering hither, glimmering thither. 
In the footsteps of the showers. 



Underneath the chestnuts dripping, 

Through the grasses wet and fair. 

Straight I sought my garden-ground. 

With the laurel on the mound. 
And the pear tree oversweeping 

A side-shadow of green air. 



In the garden lay supinely 

A huge giant wroughi, of spade ! 
Arms and legs were stretched at length 
In a passive giant strength. — 

And the meadow turf, cut finely. 
Round them laid and interlaid. 



Call him Hector, .son of Priam ! 

Such his title and degree. 

With my rake I smoothed his brnw ; 

Both his cheeks I weeded through : 
But a rhymer such as I am, 

Scarce can sing his dignity. 



Eyes of gentianellas azure. 
Staring, winking at the skie.s ; 
Nose of gillyflow^^rs and box ", 
Scented gras-ses put for loclcs — 

Which a little breeze, at pleasure. 
Set a- ^.iving round his eyes. 



Brazjn helm of daffodillies. 

With a glitter toward the light ; 
Purple violets for the mouth. 
Breathing perfumes west and south. 

Awd a sword of flashing lilies, 
Holden ready for the fight. 



.\nd a breastplate made of daisies. 

Closely fitting, leaf by leaf; 

Periwinkles interlaced 

Drawn for belt around the waist ; 
While the brown bees, humming praises. 

Shot their arrows round the chief. 



And who knows (I sometimes won- 
dered,) 
If the disembodied soul 
Of old Hector, once of Troy, 
Might not take a dreary joy 

Here to enter — if it thundered. 
Rolling up the thunder-roll? 



Rolling this way from Troy-ruin, 
In this body rude and rife 
He might enter, and take rest 
'Neath the daisies of the breast — 

They, with tender roots, renewing 
His heroic heart to life. 



Who could know ? I sometimes started 

At a motion or a sound ! 

Did his mouth speak — naming Troy, 

With an ototototoi ? 
Did the pulse of the Strong-hearted 

Make the dairies tremble round? 



A VALEDICTION. 



It was hard to answer, often : 
But the birds sang in the tree — 
But the httle birds sang bold 
In the pear-tree green and old ; 

.And my terror seemed to soften 
Through the courage of their glee. 



Oh, the birds, the tree, the ruddy 
And white blossoms, sleek with rain 
Oh, my garden, rich with pansies ! 
Oh, my childhood's bright romances ! 

All revive like Hector's body. 
And 1 see them stir again ! 



And despite life's changes — chances. 
And despite the deathbell's toll. 
They press on me in full seeming ! 
Help, some angel ! stay this dream- 
ing ! 

As the birds sang in the branches, 
Sing God's patience through my soul ! 

XVIII. 

That no dreamer, no ncglecter 
Of the present's work unsped, 
1 may wake up and be doing. 
Life's heroic ends pursuing, 

Though my past is dead as Hector, 
And though Hector is twice dead. 



A VALEDICTION. 

God be with thee my beloved, — God be 
with thee ! 
Else alone thou goest forth. 
Thy face unto the north, 
Moor and pltasance all around thee and 
beneath thee 
Looking equal in one snow ! 
While I who try to reach thee. 
Vainly follow, vainly follow. 



With the farewell and the hollo. 
And cannot reach thee so. 
Alas ! I can but teach thee. 
God be with thee my beloved, — Goi> 
with thee ! 



Can I teach thee, my beloved — can I 
teach thee ''. 
If 1 said, Go left or right. 
The counsel would be light. 
The wisdom, poor of all that could en- 
rich thee ! 
My right would show like left ; 
My raising would depress thee. 
My choice of light would blind thee. 
Of way, would leave behind thee. 
Of end, would leave bereft ; 
Alas ! I can but bless thee — 
INlay God teach thee my beloved, — may 
God teach th^e ! 



Can I bless thee, my beloved, — can I 
bless thee '? 
What blessing word can I, 
From mine own tears, keep dry? 
What flowers grow in my field where- 
with to dress thee ? 
My good reverts to ill ; 
My calmnesses would move thee. 
My softnesses would prick thee. 
My bindings up would break thee. 
My crownings, curse and kill. 
Alas! I can but love thee. 
May God bless thee my beloved, — may 
God bless thee ! 



Can I love thee, my beloved, — can I 
love thee ? 
And is this like love, to stand 
With no help in my hand. 
When strong as death 1 fain would watch 
above thee ? 
My love-kiss can deny 
No tears that fall beneath it : 
Mine oath of love can swear thee 
From no ill that comes near thee, — 
And thou diest while I breathe it, 
And I — / can but die ! 
May God love thee my beloved, — may 
God love thee ! 



TUP. sl::j:p. 



A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD. 



Thev say that God lives very high ! 

But if you look above the pines 
You cannot see our God. And why ? 



And if you dig down in the mines 
You never see Him in the gold, 
Though from Him all that's glory shines. 



God is so good, He wears a fold 

Of heaven and ear'.h across his face- 
Like secrets kept, for love, untold. 



But still I feel that His embrace 

Slides^ down by thrflls, through all 

thmgs made. 
Through sight and sound of every 

place : 



As if my tender mother laid 

On my shut lids, her kisses' pressure, 
Half-«a'<ing me at night ; and said 

' Who kissed you through the dark, 
dear guesser ? ' 



THE SLEEP. 

He Eivelli HIa belovea sleep.— /'saJm cvxyII. 2. 



Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 
Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
Now tell me if that any is. 
For gift or grace, surpassing this — 
* He giveth His beloved, sleep ? ' 



What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved, 
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep. 
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse. 



The monarch's crown, to light th» 

brows ? — 
• He giveth His beloved, sleep.' 



What do we give to our beloved ? 

A little faith all undisproved, 

A little dust to overweep, 

And bitter memories to make 

The whole earth blasted for onrsake. 

' He giveth His beloved, sleep.' 



■ Sleep soft, beloved ! ' we sometimes 

say 
But have no tune to charm away 
Sad dreams that through the eyelids 

creep 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 
' He giveth }{is beloved, sleep.' 



O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
O delved gold, the wailers heap ! 
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
(iod strikes a silence through you all. 
And 'giveth His beloved, sleep.' 



His dews drop mutely on the hill. 
His cloud above it saileth still. 
Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed. 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 
' He giveth His beloved, sleep.' 



Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man. 
Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say, and through the word 
I think their happy smile is heard — 
' He giveth His beloved, sleep ! * 



For me. my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show. 
That sees through tears the mummers 
leap, 



A SEASIDE lyALK. 



Cg 



Would now its wearied vision close. 
Would childlike on His love repose. 
Who ' giveth His beloved, sleep ! ' 



And, friends, dear friends, — when it 

shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me. 
And round my bier ye come to weep. 
Let one, most loving of you all, 
Say, ' Not a tear must o'er her fall — 
He giveth His beloved, sleep.' 



MAN AND NATURE. 

A SAD man on a summer day 

Did look upon the earth and say — 

' Purple cloud the hill-top binding ; 
Folded hills the valleys wind in ; 
Valleys, with fresh streams among you ; 
Streams, with bosky trees along you ; 
Trees, with many birds and blossoms; 
Birds, with music-trembling bosoms ; 
Blossoms, dropping dews that wreath 

you 
To your fellow flowers beneath you ; 
Flowers, that constellate on earth ; 
Earth, that shakest to the mirth 
Of the merry Titan ocean, 
All his shining hair in motion ! 
Why am I thus the only one 
Who can be dark beneath the sun ? ' 

But when the summer day was past. 
He looked to heaven and smiled at last. 
Self answered so — 

' Because, O cloud, 
Pressing with thy crumpled shroud 
Heavily on mountain top ; 
Hills that almost seem to drop. 
Stricken with a misty death 
To the valleys underneath ; 
Valleys, sighing with the torrent; 
Waters, streaked with branches hor- 
rent ; 
Branchless trees, that shake your head 
Wildly o'er your blossoms spread 
Where the common flowers are found ; 
Flowers, with foreheads to the ground ; 



Ground, that shriekest while the sea 

With his iron smiteth thee — 

I am, besides, the only one 

Who can be hv\%)M without the sun.' 



A SEA-SIDE WALK. 
I. 

We walked beside the sea 
After a day which perished silently 
Of its own glory — like the Princess 

weird 
Who, combatir.c- ihe Genius, scorched 

and seared, 
Uttered with burning breath, ' Ho ! vic- 
tory ! ' 
And sank adown an heap of ashes pale. 
So runs the Arab tale. 



The sky above us showed 
An universal and unmoving cloud. 
On which the cliffs permitted us to see 
Only the outline of their majesty, 
As master minds, when gazed at by the 

crowd ! 
And, shining with a gloom, the water 
grey 
Swang in its moon-taught way. 



Nor moon, nor stars were out. 
They did not dare to tread so soon about. 
Though trembling, in the footsteps of the 

sun . 
The light was neither night's nor day's, 

but one 
Which, life-like, had a beauty in its 

doubt : 
And Silence's impassioned breathings 

round 
Seemed wandering into sound. 



O solemn-beating heart 
Of nature ! 1 have knowledge that thou 

art 
Bound unto man's by cords he c:innot 

sever — 
And, what time they are slackened by 

him ever. 



7° 



Mr Doyjcs. 



So to attest his own supcninl part. 
Still runneth thy vibration fast and 
strong, 
The slackened cord along. 



For though we never spoke 
Of the grey water and the shaded rock. 
Dark wave and stone unconsciously 

were fused 
Into the plaintive speaking that we used 
Of absent friends and memories unfor- 

sook : 
And, had we seen each other's face, we 
had 
Seen haply, each was sad. 



THE SEA-MEW. 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCKIBED TO M. E. H. 



How joyously the young sea-mew 
Lay dreaming on the waters blue. 
Whereon our little bark had thrown 
A forward shade, the only one, 
But shadows ever man pursue. 



Familiar with the waves and free 
As if their own white foam were he, ' 
His heart upon the heart of ocean 
La/ learning all its mystic motion. 
And throbbing to the throbbing s«a. 



And such a brightness in his eye, 
As if the ocean and the sky 
Within him had lit up and nurst 
A soul God gave hm m t at first. 
To comprehend the r majesty. 

IV. 

We were not cruel, yet did simder 
His white wing from the blue waves 

under. 
And bo\ind it, while his fearless eyes 
Shone up to ours in calm surprise. 
As deeming us some ocean wonder ! 



We bore our ocean bird imto 
A grassy place, where he might view 
The flowers that curtsey to the Lees 
'I'he waving of the tall green trees. 
The falling of the silver dew. 



But flowers of earth were pale to him 
Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim ; 
And when earth's dew around l.'im l?y 
He thought of ocean's winged spray. 
And his eye wa.\ed sad and dim. 



The green trees round him only made 
A prison with their darksome shade : 
And drooped his wing, and moun;ed he 
For his own boundless glittering sea — 
Albeit he knew not they could fade. 



Then One her gladsome face did bring, 
Her gentle voice's murmuring, 
In ocean's stead his heart to move 
And teach him what was human love — 
He thought it a strange, mournful thing. 



He lay down in his grief to die, 
'First looking to the sea-like sky 
That hath no waves ! , because, ala.s ! 
Our human touch did on him pass, 
And with our touch, our agony. 



MY DOVES. 
■\Vei>lieit ! Dii rc.rst \vu- .-iiu- T.-inl- : 

OliK'I'KI 

My little doves have left a nest 

Uptm an Indian tree. 
Whose leaves fantiuslic take their icst 

Or motion from the sea : 
For. ever there, the soa-winds go 
With sun-lit paces to and fro. 

The tropic (lowers looked up to it. 

The tropic stars looked down, . 

.■\nd there my little doves did sit. 



TO MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 



With feathers softly brown. 
And ghttering eyes that showed their 

right 
To general Nature's deep delight. 

And God tliem taught, at every close 
Of murmuring waves beyond, 

And green leaves round, to interpose 
Their choral voices fond ; 

Interpreting that love must be 

The meaning of the earth and sea. 

Fit ministers ! Of living loves, 
Theirs hath the calmest fashion ; 

Their living voice the likest moves 
To lifeless intonation, 

Their lovely monotone of springs 

And winds and such insensate things. 

My little doves were ta'en away 
From that glad nest of theirs. 

Across an ocean rolling grey. 
And tempest-clouded airs. 

My little doves ! — who lately knew 

The sky and wave by warmth and blue ! 

And now, within the city prison. 

In mist and chillness pent. 
With sudden upward look they listen 

For sounds of past content — 
For lapse of water, swell of breeze. 
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees. 

The stir without the glow of passion — 

The triumph of the mart — 
The gold and silver as they cla.sh on 

Man's cold and metallic heart — 
The roar of wheels, the cry for bread, — 
These only sounds arc heard instead. 

Yet still, as on my human hand 
Their fearless heads they lean. 

And almost seem to understand 
What human musings mean — 

(Their eyes with such a plaintive shine, 

Are fastened upwardly to mine !j 

Soft falls their chant as on the nest. 

Beneath the sunny zone ; 
For love that stirred it in their breast 

Has not aweary grown, 
And 'neath the city's shade can keep 
The well o' music clear and deep. 



And love that keeps the music, fills 

With pastoral memories : 
All echoings from out the hills. 

All droppings from the skies, 
All flowings from the wave and wind. 
Remembered in their chant, 1 find. 

So teach ye me the wisest part, 

My little doves! to move 
Along the city-ways with heart 

Assured by holy love, 
And vocal with such songs as own 
A fountain to the world unknown. 

'Twas hard to .sing by Babel's stream - 
More hard, in Babel's street ! 

But if the soulle.ss creatures deem 
Their music not unmeet 

For sunless walls — let us begin. 

Who wear immortal wings withm ! 

To me, fair memories belong 
Of scenes that used to bless ; 

For no regret, but present song. 
And lasting thankfulness ; 

And very soon to break away, 

Like types, in purer things than they. 

I will have hopes that cannot fade. 

For flowers the valley yields : 
I will have humble thoughts instead 
. Of silent dewy fields ; 
My spirit and my God shall be 
My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea ! 



TO MARY RUSSELL MITFORD, 

IN HER GARDEN. 

What time I lay these rhymes anear 

thy feet, 
Benignant friend ! I will not proudly 

say 
As better poets use, ' These ^orwri- I 

lay,' 
Because I would not wrong thy roses 

sweet. 
Blaspheming so their name. And yet, 

repeat 
Thou, overleaning them this springtime 

day. 



y2 A SO.VG ACALVSr S/.VCLVG. 


AViih heart as open to love as theirs to 


V. 


May, 


I could not bear to look upon 


• Low-rooted verse may reach some 


That mound of funeral clay. 


heavenly heat. 


Where one sweet voice is silence, — one 


Even hke my blossoms, if as naturc- 


^Ethereal brow decay ; 


trne, 


Where all thy mortal I may see. 


Though not as precious.' Thou art un- 


But never thee. 


perplext, 




Dear friend, in whose dear writings 


VI. 


drops the dew 
And blow the natural airs ; thou, who 


For thou art where all friends are gone 


art next 
To nature's self in cheering the world's 


Whose parting pain is o'er : 


And I who love and weep alone, 




Where thou wilt weep no more. 


To preach a sermon on so known a text ! 


Weep bitterly and selfishly, 
For me, not thee. 




VII. 


THE EXILE'S RETURN. 


I know. Beloved, thou canst not know 




That I endure this pain ! 


I. 


For saints in Heaven, the Scriptures 


When from thee, weeping I removed. 


show 


And from my land for years, 


Can never grieve again — 


I thought not to return, Beloved, 


And grief known mine, even there, 


With those same parting tears. 


would be 


I come again to hill and lea, 


Still shared by thee ! 


Weeping for thee. 

11. 
I clasped thy hand when standing Last 




A SONG AGAINST SINGING. 


Upon the shore in sight. 




The land is green, the ship is fast. 


TO E. J. H. 


1 shall be there to night ! 




/ shall be there — -no longer 7uc — 


I. 


No more with thee. 


They bid me sing to thee. 




TKou golden-haired and silver-voiced 


III. 


child, 


Had I beheld thee dead and still. 


With lips by no worse .sigh than sleep's 


I might more clearly know, 


defiled; 


How heart of thine could turn as chill 


With eyes unknowing how tears dim the 


Ai hearts by nature so ; 


sight ; 


How chanac could touch the falsehood- 


With feet all trembling at the new de- 


free 


light 


And changeless //lec ! 


Treaders of earth to be ! 


IV. 

But now thy fervid looks Uvst-seen 


11. 
Ah no ! the lark may bring 


Within my soul remain. 


A song to thee from out the morning 


'I'is hard to think that they have been. 


cloud ; 


To be nn more again — 


The merry river from its lilies bowed : 


That I shall vainly wait — ah me ! 


The brisk rain from the trees : the lucKy 


A word from thee. 


wind. 



COWPER-S CRAVE. 



73 



That half doth make its music, half doth 
find : 
But / — I may not sing. 



How could I think it right, 
!New-comer on our earth as, Sweet, thou 

art, 
To bring a verse from out a human heart 
Made heavy with accumulated teai-s. 
And cross with such amount of weary 
years 
The day-sum of delight? 

IV. 
E'en if the verse were said. 
Thou, who wouldst clap thy tiny hands 

to hear 
The wind or rain, gay bird or river 

clear, 
"Wo.uldst, at that sound of sad humani- 
ties, 
Upturn thy bright uncomprehending 
eyes 
And bid me play instead. 



Therefore no song of mine ! 
But prayer in place of singing ! prayer 

that would 
Commend thee to the new-creating God, 
Whose gift in childhood's heart without 

its stain 
Of weakness, ignorance, and changing 
vain — 
That gift of God be thine ! 



So wilt thouaye be young, 
In lovelier childhood than thy shining 

brow 
And pretty winning accents make thee 

now ! 
Yea, sweeter than this scarce articulate 

sound 
(How sweet !) of ' father,' ' mother," 

shall be found 
The Abba on thy tongue. 



And so, as years shall chase 
Each others' shadows, thou wilt less 
resemble 



Thy fellows of the earth, who toil and 

tremble, 
Than hmi thou seest not, thine angel 

bold 
Yet meek, whose ever-lifted eyes behold 
The Ever-loving's face. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 



It is a place where poets crowned may 

feel the heart's decaying. 
It is a place where happy saints may 

weep amid their praying : 
Yet let the grief and humbleness, as 

low as silence languish ! 
Earth surely now may give her calm to 

whom sh e gave her anguish. 



O poets ! from a maniac's tongue was 

poured the deathle.ss singing ! 
O Christians ! at your cross of hope, a 

hopeless hand was clinging! 
O men ! this man in brotherhood your 

weary paths beguiling. 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 

and died while ye were smiling ! 



And now, what time ye all. may read 

through dimming tears his story. 
How discord on the music fell, and 

darkness on the glory, 
And how when one by one, sweet 

sounds and wandering lights departed. 
He wore no less a loving face because so 

brokenhearted ; 



He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's 

high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

in meeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise 

or good forsaken ; 
Named softly as the household name of 

one whom God hath taken. 



CO UPPER'S CRAP'E. 



With quiet sadness and no gloom I 

learn to think upon him. 
With meeKuess that is gratefulness to 

God whose heaven hath won him — 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to 

His own love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along where 

breath and bird could find hmi ; 



And wrought within his shattered brain 

such quick poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars, 

harmonious influences! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass, kept 

his within its number ; 
And silent shadows from the trees 

refreshed him like a slumber. 



Wild timid hares were drawn from 

woods to share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes with 

sylvan tendernesses : 
The very world, by God's constraint, 

from falsehood's ways removing, 
Jts women and its men became beside 

him, true and loving. 



But though in blindness he remained 

imconscious of that guiding. 
And things provided came without the 

sweet sense of providing. 
He testified this solemn truth, while 

phrenzy desolated — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only 

God created ! 



Like a sick child that knowetli not his 

mother while she blesses 
And drops upon his burning brow the 

coolness of her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around — 

' My mother ! where's my mother ?' — 
As if such tender words and deeds could 

come from any other I — 



The fever gone, with leaps of heart lie 

sees her bending o'er him ; 
H«-r face all pale from watchful love, 

the unweary love she bore him ! — 
Thus woke the poet from the dream his 

life's long fever gave him. 
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, 

which closed in death to save him ! 



Thus ? oh, not thus ! no type of earth 

can image that awaking. 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of 

seraphs, round him breaking. 
Or felt the new immortal throb of .soul 

from body parted ; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew ' My 

Saviour ! not deserted !' 



Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when 

the cross in darkness rested. 
Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love 

was manifested ? 
What frantic hands outstretched have 

e'er the atoning drops averted. 
What tears have washed them from the 

soul, that one should be deserted ? 



Deserted ! God could separate from 

His own essence rather : 
And Adam's sins have swept between 

the righteous Son and Father ; 
Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his 

universe hath shaken- — 
It went up single, echoless, ' My God, I 

am forsaken !' 



Tt went up from the Holy's lips amid 

his lost creation, 
That, of the lost, no son should use these 

words of desolation ; 
That earth's worst phrenzics, mprring 

hope, should mar not hope's fruition. 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see 

his rapture in a vision ! 



THE PET NAME. 



THE MEASURE. 

"He compreliended the dust of the parlli in 
R measure (!?^*'*1^'') " — Isaiah xl. 

"ThoHRivcst tliem tears to dvink in n nioii- 
BUre ^-^Sy^^^^'^rsabu Ixxx. ■ 

God, the Creator, with pulseless hand 
Of unoriginatcd power, hath weighed 
The dust of earth and tears of man in 
one 

Measure and by one weight ; 

So saith His holy book. 

Shall we, then, who have issued from 

the dust. 
And there return — -shall •zve, who toil for 

dust, 
And wrap our winnings in this dusty 
life. 
Say, ' No more tears, Lord God I 
The measure runneth o'er ?' 

Oh, holder of the balance, laughest 

Thou? 
Nay, Lord ! be gentler to our foolish- 
ness, 
For His sake who assumed our dust and 
turns 
On Thep pathetic eyes 
Still moistened with our tears ! 

And teach us, O our Father, while we 

weep. 
To look in patience upon earth and 

learn — 
Waiting in that meek gesture, till at last 
These tearful eyes be filled 
With the dry dust of death ! 



THE WEAKEST THING. 



Which is the weakest thing of all 

Mine heart can ponder ? 
The sun, a little cloud can pall 



* I believe that the word necura in no other 
liart of the Hebrew Bcrlptures, 



With darkness yonder ? 
The cloud, a little wind can move 

Where'er it listeth ? 
The wind, a little leaf above, 

Though sere, resisteth ? 



What time that yellow leaf was green. 

My days were gladder ; 
But now, whatever Spring may mean, 

I must grow sadder. 
Ah me ! a /frt/ with sighs can wring 

My lips asimder — 
Then is mine heart the weakest thing 

Itself can ponder. 



Yet, Heart, when sun and cloud are 
pined 

And drop together. 
And at a blast which is not wind. 

The forests wither. 
Thou from the darkening deathly curse. 

To glory breakest, — 
The Strongest of the Universe 

Guarding the weakest ! 



THE PET-NAME. 

the name 

Whieli from THEIR llp.s seemed a caress. 
Mi83 MiTKORD's Dramatic Scetu 



I HAVE a name, a little name, 

Uncadenced for the ear, 
Unhonored by ancestral claim, 
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm 
The solemn font anear. 



It never did to pages wove 

For gay romance, belong. 
It never dedicate did move 
As ■ Sacharissa,' unto love — 
' Orinda,' unto song 



Though I write books, it will be read 

Upon the leaves of none. 
And afterward, when I am dead, 



76 



TO FLUSH, MV DOC. 



Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread 
Across my funeral stone. 

This name, whoever chance to call, 

Perhaps your smile may win. 
Nay. do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
Over mine eyes, and feel withal 
The sudden tears within. 



Is there a leaf that greenly grows 
Where summer meadows bloom 
But gathereth the winter snows. 
And changeth to the hue of those, 
If la.sting till they come? 



Is there a word, or jest,' or game, 

But time encrusteth round 
With sad associate thoughts the same 1 
And so to me my very name 

Assumes a mournful sound. 



My brother gave that name to me 
When we were children twain ; 
When names acquired baptismally 
Were hard to utter as to see 
That life had any pain. 



No shade was on us then, save one 
Of chestinits from the hill — 

And through the word our laugh did 
run 

As part thereof. The mirth being done, 
He calls me by it still. 



Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it 
What none of you can hear ! 
The talk upon the willow seat. 
The bird and wind that did repeat 
Around, our human cheer. 



1 hear tile liirthday's noisy bliss. 
My sister's woodland glee, — 
l\Iv father's praise. I did not mis.s. 
When stoopine down he cared to 1; 
The poet at hi:; knee ; — 



And voices, which to name me, aye 

Their tenderest tones were keeping !— 
To some I never more can .say 
An answer, till God wipes away 
In heaven those drops of weeping. 



My name to me a sadness wears ; 

No murmurs cross my mind ; 
Now God bo thanked for these thick 

tears. 
Which show, of those departed years, 

Sweet memories left behind I 



Now God be thanked for year; cn- 

wrought 
With love which softens yet ! 
Now God be thanked for every thought 
Which is so tender it has caught 

Earth's guerdon of regret 1 



Earth .saddens, never shall remove, 

Affections purely given ; 
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
The immortality of love. 

And brighten it with Heaven. 



TO FLUSH, MY DOG. 

Loving friend, the gift of one 
Who her own true faith hath run, 

Through thy lower nature ;■* 
Be my benediction said 
With mv hand upon thy head, 

Gentle fellow-creature ! 

Like a lady's ringlets brown, 
Flow thine silken ears adown 
Either side demurely 



• Thlmlns WHS the Rift of my deiir and K(i- 
nilreil tVieiirl, Mins Mlfiir.i, nnd lifloiiss tn the 
IwiulfHl race oho lias lelnleieci oelpbmteil 
aiiiiinx En'jliah iiii,l Aniprioin riMilivs The 
Pluslica have thfl- liilids iis well as the 
Ca;«ar».— the chief illfferellr-o 'at least the very 
li":irl ail.l fmiu n' it .■oiisUHii;. ]iiTlia|i». Ill 
the bal 1 hua I uf the liitle.- uii ler the ciowii. 



TO FLUSH, MY DOG. 



Of thy silver-suited breast 
Shining out from all the rest 
Of thy body purely. 

Darkly brown thy body is, 
Till the sunshine striking this • 

Alchemise its dullness ; 
When the sleek curls manifold 
Flash all over into gold. 

With a burnished fulness. 

Underneath my stroking hand. 
Startled eyes of hazel bland 

Kmdling, growing larger. 
Up thou leapest with a spring. 
Full of prank and curveting. 

Leaping like a charger. 

Leap ! thy broad tail waves a light ; 
Leap ! thy slender feet are bright. 

Canopied in fringes. 
I^eap — -those tasselled ears of thine 
Flicker strangely, fair and fine, 
Down their golden inches. 

Yet, my pretty, sportive friend. 
Little is 't to such an end 

That I praise thy rareness ! 
Other dogs may be thy peers 
Haply in those drooping ears, 

And this glossy fairness. 

But of thee it shall be said. 
This dog watched beside a bed 

Day and night unweary, — 
Watched within a curtained room, 
Whirre no sunbeam brake the gloom 

Round the sick and dreary. 

Roses gathered for a vase, 
Li that chamber died apace. 

Beam and breeze resigning — 
This dog only, waited on. 
Knowing that when light is gone. 

Love remains for shining. 

Other dogs in thymy dew 

Tracked the hares and followed through 

Sunny moor or meadow — 
This dog only, crept and crept 
Next a languid cheek that slept. 

Sharing in the shadow. 



Other dogs of loyal cheer 
Bounded at the whistle clear. 

Up the woodside hying — 
This dog only, watched in reach 
Of a faintly uttered speech, 

Or a louder sighing. 

And if one or two quick tears 
Dropped upon his glossy ears. 

Or a sigh came double. — 
Up he sprang in eager haste, 
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast. 

In a tender trouble. 

And this dog was satisfied 

If a pale thin hand would glide 

Down his dewlaps sloping, — 
Which he pushed his nose within. 
After, — platforming his chin 

On the palm left open. 

This dog, if a friendly voice 
Called him now to blither choice 

Than such a chamber-keeping, 
' Come out 1 ' praying from the door,- 
Presseth backward as before. 

Up against me leaping. 

Therefore to this dog will \, 
Tenderly not scornfully, 

Render praise and favor : 
With my hand upon his head. 
Is my benediction said, 

Therefore, and forever. 

And because he loves me so. 
Better than his kind will do 

Often, man or woman. 
Give I back more love again 
Than dogs often take of men, 

Leaning from my Human. 

Blessings on thee, dog of mine, 
Pretty collars make thee fine, 

Sugared milk make fat thee ! 
Pleasures wag on in thy tail — 
Hands of gentle motion fail 

Nevermore, to pat thee I 

Downy pillov/ take thy head. 
Silken coverlid bestead. 

Sunshine help thy sleeping ! 
No fly's buzzing wake thee up — 



SONNETS. 



j"n mnn break thy purple cup, 
Set for drinking deep in. 

Whiskered cats arointed flee — 
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee 

Cologne distillations ; 
Nuts he in thy path for stones, 
And thy feast-day macaroons 

Turn to daily rations ! 

Mock I thee, in wishing weal?— 
'1 ears are in my eyes to feel 



Thou art made so straightly, 
Blessing needs must straighten too,- 
Little canst thou joy or do, 

Thou who lovest greatly. 

Yet be blessed to the height 
Of all good and all delight 

Pervious to thy nature. 
Only Imied beyond that line. 
With a love that answers thine. 

Loving fellow-creature ! 



SONNETS. 



BEREAVEMENT. 
When some Beloveds, 'neath whose 

eyelids lay 
The sweet lights of my childhood, one 

by one 
Did leave me dark before the natural 

sun, 
And I astonished fell, and could not 

pray, 
A thought within me to myself did say, 
' Is God less God that thou art left 

undone ? 
Rise, worship, bless Him, in this 

sackcloth spun. 
As in that purple !' — But I answered. 

Nay ! 
What child his filial heart in words can 

1 lose, 
]f he behold his tender father raise 
The hand that chastens sorely ? can he 

choose 
But sob in silence with an upward 

gaze ? — 
And my great Father, thinking fit to 

bruise. 
Discerns in speechless tears, both prayer 

and praise. 



CONSOLATION. 

All are not taken ! there are left behind 

Living Beloveds, tender looks to bring. 

And make the daylight still a happy 

thing. 



And tender voices, to make soft the 

wind. 
But if it were not so — if 1 could find 
No love in all the world for comforting, 
Nor any path but hollowly did ring, 
Where ' dust to dust' the love from life 

disjoined — 
And if before these sepulchres unmoving 
I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb 
Goes bleating up the moors in weary 

dearth) 
Crying ' Where are ye, O my loved and 

loving ?'.... 
I know a Voice would sound, ' Daughter, 

I AM. 
Can I .suffice for He.^ven, and not for 

earth ?' 



THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION. 

With stammering lips and insufficient 

sound 
I strive and struggle to deliver right 
That music of my nature, day and nigbt 
With dream and thought and feelir.g 

interwound, 
And inly answering all the senses roui cl 
With octaves of a mystic depth and 

height 
Which step out grandly to the infinite 
From the dark edges of the sensual 

ground ! 
This song of soul I struggle to outbear 



79 



Through portals of the sense, sublime 

and whole, 
And utter all myself into the air : 
But if I did it, — as the thunder-roll 
Breaks its own cloud, — my flesh would 

perish there. 
Before that dread apocalypse of soul. 



THE SERAPH AND POET. 

The seraph sings before the manifest 
God-one, and in the burning of the 

'Seven, 
And with the full life of consummate 

He.iven 
Heaving beneath him like a mother's 

breast 
Warm with her first-born's slumber in 

that nest ! 
The poet sings upon, the earth 

grave-riven : 
Bvifore the naughty world soon self- 
forgiven 
For wronging him ; and in the darkness 

prest 
From his own soul by worldly weights. 

Even so. 
Sing, seraph with the glory ! Heaven 

is high — ■ 
Sing, poet with the sorrow ! Earth is 

low. 
The universe's inward voices cry 
' Amen' to either song of joy and wo — 
Sing seraph, — poet, — sing on equally. 



ON A PORTRAIT OF WORDS- 
WORTH BY R. B. HAYDON. 

Wordsworth upon Helvellyn ! Let 

the cloud 
Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind. 
Then break against the rock, and show 

behind 
The lowland valleys floating up to crowd 
The sense with beauty. He, with 

forehead bowed 
And humble-lidded eyes, as one inclined 
b-ifore the sovran thought of his own 

mind. 



And very meek with inspirations 

proud, — 
Takes here his rightful place as 

poet-priest 
By the high-altar, singing prayer and 

prayer 
To the higher Heavens. A noble vision 

free 
Our Haydon's hand has flung out from 

the mist ! 
No portrait this, with Academic air — 
This is the poet and his poetry. 



PAST AND FUTURE. 

My future will not copy fair my past 
On any leaf but Heaven's. Be fully 

done, 
Supernal Will ! I would not fain be 

one 
Who, satisfying thirst and breaking fast 
Upon the fulness of the heart, at Ia,st 
Says no grace after meat. My wine 

hath run 
Indeed out of my cup, and there is none 
To gather up the bread of my repast 
Scattered and trampled ;■ — yet 1 find 

some good 
In earth's green herbs and springs that 

bubble up 
Clear from the darkling ground, — 

content until 
I sit with angels before better food. 
Dear Christ ! when thy new vintage 

fills my cup. 
This hand shall shake no more, nor that 

wine spill. 



IRREPARABLENESS. 

I HAVE been in the meadows all the day 
And gathered there the nosegay that 

you see ; 
Singing within myself as bird or bee 
When such do field-work on a morn of 

May : 
But now I look upon my flowers, — 

decay 
Has met them in my hands more fatally 
Because more warmly clasped ; and 

sobs are free 



SchVAT^TS. 



To come instead of song*;. What do 

you say, 
Sweet counsellors, dear friends? that 1 

should go 
B.ick straightway to the fields, and 

gather more? 
Another, sooth, may do it, — but not I : 
My heart is very tired — my strength is 

low — 
My hands are full of blossoms plucked 

before, 
Held dead within them till myself shall 

die 



TEARS. 

Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer 

not 
More grief than ye can weep for. That 

is well — 
That is light grieving ! lighter, none 

befell. 
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. 
Tears! what are tears? Thebabe weeps 

in its cot. 
The mother singing ; at her marriage- 
bell 
The bride weeps; and before the oiMcle 
Of high-faned hills, the poet has forgot 
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank 

God for grace. 
Ye who weep only ! If, as some have 

done. 
Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place. 
And touch but tombs, — look up ! Those 

tears will nm 
Soon in long rivers down the lifted face. 
And leave the vision clear for stars and 

sun. 



GRIEF. 

1 TELI. you, hopeless grief is passion- 
less— 

That only men incredulous of despair. 

Half-taught in anguish, through the 
midnight air 

Beat upward to God's throne in loud 
access 

Of shrieking and reproach. Full desei t- 
aesi 



In so ih .-\-, countric-., lict'i silent-b.are 
Under th j blanching, vertical eye-gl^i^i 
Of theabsoliue Heavens. Deep-hearted 

man, c.vpress 
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to 

death ; 
Most like a monumental statue set 
In everlasting watch and moveless wo. 
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. 
Touch it : the marble eyelids are not 

wet — 
If it could weep, it could arise and go. 



SUBSTITUTION. 

When some beloved voice that was to 
you 

Both sound and sweetness, faileth sud- 
denly. 

And silence against which you dare not 
cry. 

Aches round you like a strong disease 
and new — 

What liope ? what help ? what music 
will undo 

That silence to your sense ? Not friend- 
ship's sigh — 

Nor reason's subtle count ! Not melody 

Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus 
blew — 

Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales. 

Whose hearts leap upward through the 
cypress trees 

To the clear raoon ; nor yet the spheric 
laws 

Self-chanted, — nor the angel's sweet All 
hails. 

Jklet in the smile of God. Nay, none of 
these. 

Speak THOl'. availing Christ ! — 'and fill 
this pause. 



COMFORT. 

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and 

sweet 
From out the hallcluj.ahs, sweet and low. 
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee 

so 
Wh.o art not missed by any that entreat. 



SONNETS. 



Speak to me as to Mary at thy feet — 
Ana it no precious gums my hands 

bestow, 
Let my tears drop hke amber, while I 

SO 
In reach of thy divinest voice complete 
In humanest ati'ection — thus in sooth. 
To lose the sense of losing I As a child. 
Whose song-bird seeks the wood for 

evermore. 
Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth ; 
Till, sinking on her breast, love-recon- 
ciled. 
He sleeps the faster that he wept before. 



PERPLEXED MUSIC. 

ExPF.iiiENCE. like a pale musician, holds 

A dulcimet- of patience in his hand 

Whence harmonies we cannot under- 
stand, 

Of God's will in His worlds, the strain 
unfolds 

In sad perplexed minors. Deathly 
colds 

Fall on us while we hear and counter- 
mand 

Our sanguine heart back from the fancy. 
land 

With nightingales in visionary wolds. 

We murmur, — ' Where is any ceitai 
tune 

Of measured music, in such notes ;ts 
these t ' — 

But angels, leaning from the golden 
seat. 

Are not so minded : their fine car hath 
won 

The issue of completed cadences ; 

And, smiling down the stars, they whis- 
per — Sweet. 



WORK. 

What r.re we set on earth for ? Say, 

to toil — 
Kor seek to leave thy tendmg of the 

vines, 
I'or all the heat o' day, till it declines. 



And Death's mild curfew sh.-.ll from 

work assoil. 
God did anoint thee with his odorous 

oil. 
To wrestle, not to reign ; and He assigns 
All thy tears over, like pure crystallines. 
For younger fellow-workeis ot the soil 
To wear tor amulets. So others shall 
Take patience, labor, to their heart and 

hand. 
From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy 

brave cheer. 
And God's grace fructify through thee 

to all. 
The least flower, with a brimming cup, 

may stand 
And share its dew-drop with another 

near. 



FUTURITY. 

And, O beloved voices, upon which 
Ours passionately call, because erelong 
Ye brake off in the middle of l.hat song 
We sang together softly, to enrich 
The poor world with the sense of love, 

and witch 
The heart out of things evil,— I am 

strong. 
Knowing ye are not lost for aye among 
The hills, with last year's thrush. God 

keeps a niche 
In Heaven to hold our idols : and albeit 
He brake them to our faces and denied 
That our close kisses should impair their 

white, — 
I know we shall behold them, raised 

complete, 
The dust swept from their beauty,— glo- 
rified 
New Memnons singing ia the great 

God-light. 



THE TWO SAYINGS. 

Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures 

beat 
Like pulses in the church's brow and 

breast ; 



And by them, wc firnl rest in onr unrest, 

And heart-deep in salt tears, do yet en- 
treat 

God's fellowship, as if on heavenly seat. 

'I'he first is Jesus wept, whereon is 
prest 

Full many a sobbing face that drops its 
best 

And sweetest waters on the record 
sweet : 

And one is, where the Christ denied 
and scorned 

Looked ufon Peter. Oh, to render 
plain, 

By help of having loved a little and 
mourned. 

That look of sovran love and sovran 
pain 

Which He who could not sin yet suffered, 
turned 

On him who could reject but not sus- 
tain ! 



THE LOOK. 

The Saviour looked on Peter. Ay, no 
word — 

No gesture of reproach ! The heavens 
serene 

Though heavy with armed justice, did 
not lean 

Their thunders that way The forsaken 
Lord 

Looked only, on the traitor. None re- 
cord 

What that look was ; none guess : for 
those who have seen 

Wronged lovers loving through a death- 
pang keen, 

Or pale-checked martyrs smiling to .a 
sword. 

Have missed Jehovah at the judgment- 
call. 

And Peter, from the height of blas- 
phemy — 

' I never knew this man ' did quail and 
fall. 

As kn )wing straight that God, — and 
turned free 

And went out speechless from the face 
of all. 

And filled the silence, weeping bitterly. 



THE MEANING OI" THE LOOK. 

I THINK that look of Christ might .seem 
to say— 

' I'hou Peter ! art thou then a common 
stone 

Which I at last must break my heart 
upon. 

For all God's charge to His high angels 
ma y 

Guard my foot better ? Did I yesterday 

Wash thy feet, ray beloved, that they 
should run 

Quick to deny me 'ncath the morning- 
sun. 

And do thy kis.ses, like the rest, betray? 

The cock crows coldly. — Go and mani- 
fest 

A late contrition, but no bootless fear ! 

For when thy final need 's dreariest. 

Thou shalt not be denied, as I am hero 

My voice, to God and angels, shall 
attest. 

' Because I know t!iis man, let him he 
clear.' 



A THOUGHT FOR A LONELY 
DEATH-BED. 

INSCRIBED TO MV FRIEND E. C. 

If God compel thee to this destiny. 

To die alone, — with none beside tny bed 

To rnffle round with sobs thy last word 
said, 

And mark with tears the pulses ebb 
from thee, — 

Pray then alone — ' O Christ, come ten- 
derly ! 

By thy forsaken Sonship in the red 

Drear wine-press, — by the wilderness 
outspread, — 

And the lone garden where Thine agony 

Fell bloody from thy brow, — by all of 
those 

Permitted desolations, comfort mine! 

No earthly friend being near me, inter- 
pose 

No deathly angel 'twixt my face and 
Thine, 

But stoop Thyself to gather my life's 
rose. 

And smile away my mortal to Divine.' 



SONNETS. 



83 



WORK AND CONTEMPLATION. 

The woman singeth at her spinning- 
wheel 

A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarolle ; 

Sue thinUeth of her song, upon the 
whole, 

Far more than of the fiax ; and yet the 
reel 

li? full, and artfully her fingers feel 

With quick adjustment, provident con- 
trol. 

The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, 

Out to a perfect thread. 1 hence appeal 

To the dear Christian church— that we 
may do 

Our Father's business in these temples 
mirk. 

Thus swift and steadfast; thus intent 
and strong 

While, thus, apart from toil, our souls 
pursue 

Some high, calm, spheric tune, and 
prove our work 

The better for the sweetness of our song 



PAIN IN PLEASURE. 

A Thought lay like a flower upon mine 
heart. 

And drew around it other thoughts like 
bees 

For multitude aid thirst of sweetnesses ; 

Whereat rejoicnig, I desired the art 

Of the Greek whistler, who to wharf 
and mart 

Could hire those insect swarms from 
orange-trees, 

That I might hive with me such 
thoughts, and please 

My soul so, always. Foolish counter- 
part 

Of a weak man's vain wishes ! While I 
spoke. 

The thought I called a flower, grew net- 
tle-rough — 

The thoughts, called bees, stung me to 
festering. 

Oh, entertain (cried Reason, as she 
woke,) 



Your best and gladdest thoughts but 

long enough 
And they Will all prove sad enough to 

stmg. 



AN APPREHENSION. 

Ik all the gentlest-hearted friends I 

know 
Concentred in one heart their gent'.e- 

nesii. 
That still grew gentler, till its pulse was 

less 
For life than pity, I should yet be slow 
To bring my own heart nakedly below 
The palm of such a friend, that he 

should press 
Motive, condition, means, appliances. 
My false ideal joy and fickle wo, 
Out f.ill to light and knowledge. I 

should fear 
Some plait between the brows — some 

rougher chime 
In the free voice . . . . O angels, let the 

flood 
Of bitter scorn dash on me I Do ye 

hear 
What / say, who bear calmly all the 

time 
This everlasting face to face with God ? 



DISCONTENT. 

Light human nature is' too lightly tost 
And ruffled without cause ; complaining 

on — 
Restless with rest — until, being over- 
thrown, 
It learn cth to lie quiet. Let a frost 
Or a small wasp have crept to the inner- 
most 
Of our ripe peach : or let the wilful sv.n 
Shine westward of our window — straight 

we run 
A furlong's sigh as if the world were 

lost. 
But what time through the heart and 
through the brain 



SONNETS. 



God hath transfixed us, — we, so moved 

before. 
Attain to a Calm. Ay, shouldering 

weights of pain. 
We anchor in deep waters, safe from 

shore ; 
And hear, submissive, o'er the stormy 

main, 
God's chartered judgments walk for 

evermore. 



PATIENCETAUGHT BY NATURE. 

'O DREARY "life 1 ' we cry, 'O dreary 
life ! ' 

And still the generations of the birds 

Suig through our sighing, and the flocks 
and herds 

Serenely live while we are keeping strife 

With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a 
knife 

Against which we may struggle. Ocean 
girds 

Unslackened the dry land : savannah- 
swards 

Unweary .sweep ; hills watch, unworn ; 
and rife 

Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest- 
trees. 

To show above the unwasted stars that 
pass 

In their old glory. O thou God of old 1 

Grant me some smaller grace than 
comes to these : — 

But so much patience as a blade of 
gra.ss 

Grows by contented through the heat 
and cold. 



CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY 
REASON. 

1 THINK we are too ready with complaint 
In this fair world of God's. Had we no 

hope 
Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope 
Of yon grey bank of sky, we might oe 

faint 
To muse upon eternity's constraint 
Round our a.spirant souls. But since the 

scope 



Must widen early, is it well to droop 
For a few days consumed in loss and 

taint ? 
O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted,^- 
And, like a cheerful traveller, take the 

road. 
Singing beside the hedge. What if the 

bread 
Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod 
lb meet the flints? — .\X least it may be 

said, 
' Because the way is short, I thank thee, 
.Godl 



EXAGGERATION. 

We overstate the ills of life, and take 
Imagination, given us to bring down 
The choirs of .singing angels overshone 
By God's clear glory, — down our earth 

to rake 
The dismal snows instead ; flake follow- 
ing flake. 
To cover all the corn. We walk upon 
The shadow of hilk across a level 

thrown. 
And pant like climbers. Nc.ir ihe alder- 
brake 
We sigh so loud, the nightingale within 
Refuses to sing loud, as else she woula. 
O brothers 1 let us leave the shame and 

sin 
Of taking vainly, in a plaintive mood, 
The holy name of Grief ! — holy herein. 
That, by the grief of One, came all our 
good. 



ADEQUACY. 

Now by the verdure on thv thousand 

hills, 
Beloved England, — doth the earth 

appear 
Quite good enough for men to overbear 
The will of God in, with rebellious 

wills ! 
We cannot say the morning sim fulfils 
Inglorioiisly its course : nor that the 

cleskr 



SONNETS. 83 


Strong stars without significance insphere 


By weaker women in captivity ? 


Our habitation. \V e, meantime, our 


Ah, vain denial ! that revolted cry 


ills 


Is sobbed in by a woman's voice fur- 


Heap up against this good ; and lift a 


lorn : 


cry 


Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn. 


Against this work-day world, this ill- 


Floats back dishevelled strength in 


spread feast. 


agony, 


As if ourselves were better certainly 


Disproving thy man's name : and while 


Than what we come to. Maker and 


before 


High Priest, 


The world thou bi.rnest in a poet fire. 


I ask thee not my joys to multiply, — 
Only make me worthier of the least. 


We sec thy woman's heart beat ever. 


more 




Through the large flame. Beat purei_ 




heart, and higher. 
Till God unse.x tliee on the heavenly 




TO GEORGE SAND. 


shore. 




Where unincamate spirits purely aspire. 


A DESIRE. 




Thou large-brained woman and large- 




hearted man. 


THE PRISONER. 


Self-called George Sand ! whose soul 




amid the lions 


I COUNT the dismal time by months and 


Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defi- 


years. 


ance, 


Since last I felt the green sward under 


And answers roar for roar as spirits can : 


foot. 


I would some miraculous thunder ran 


And the great breath of all things sum- 


Above the applauded circus, in appli- 


mer-mute 


ance 


Met mine upon my lips. Now earth 


Of thine own nobler nature's strength 


appears 


and science, 


As strange to me a.s dreams of distant 


Drawing two pinions, white as wings of 


spheres, 


swan, 


Or thoughts of Heaven we weep ac. 


From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the 


Nature's lute 


place 


Sounds on behind this door so closely 


With holier light ! That thou to wo- 


shut, 


man's claim. 


A strange wild music to the prisoner's 


And man's, might join beside the angel's 


ears. 


grace 


Dilated by the distance, till the brain 


Of a pure genius sanctified from blame ; 


Grows dim with fancies which it feels 


Till child and maiden pressed to thine 


too fine ; 


embrace. 


While ever, with a visionary pain. 


To kiss upon thy lips a stainless f< ins. 


Past the precluded senses, sweep and 




.shine 




Streams, forests, glades, — and many a 




golden train 


TO GEORGE SAND. 


Of sunlit hills, transfigured to Divine. 


A RECOG.NITION. 

True genius, but true woman ! dost 






deny 


INSUFFICIENCY. 


Thy woman's nat\ire with a manly scorn, 


When I attain to utter forth in verse 


And break away the gauds and armlets 


Some inward thought, my soul throbs 


worn 


audibly 



Along my pulses, yearning to be free 
And something farther, fuller, higher, 

rehearse. 
To the individual, true, and the universe, 
In consummation of right harmony. 
But, like a wind-exposed, distorted tree. 
We are blown against for ever by the 

curse 
Which breathes through nature. O, 

the world is weak. 
The effluence of each is false to all ; 
And what we best conceive, we fail to 

speak. 
Wait, soul, until thine ashen garments 

fall ! 
And then resume thy broken strains, 

and seek 
Fit peroration, without let or thall. 



FLUSH OR FAUNUS. 
Yoi; see this dog. It wa.s but yesterday 
I mused forgetful of his presence here. 
Till thought on thought drew downward 

tear on tear ; 
When from the pillow, where wet- 
cheeked I lay, 
A head as hairy as Faunus, thrust its 

way 
Right sudden against my face, — two 

golden-clear 
Great eyes astonished mine, — a drooping 

ear 
Did flap me on either cheek to dry the 

.spray ! 
I started first, as some Arcadian, 
Amazed by goatly god in twilight 

grove : 
But as my bearded vision closelier ran 
My tears off, I knew Flush, and rose 

above 
Surprise and .sadness ; thanking the true 

Pan, 
Who, by low creatures, leads to heights 

of love. 



FINITE AND INFINITE. 
The wind sounds only in opposing 

straights, 
The sea. beside the shore ; man's spirit 

rends 



Its quiet only up against the ends 

Of wants and oppositions, loves and 

hates. 
Where worked and worn by pa.ssionate 

debates. 
And losing by the loss it apprehends, 
The flesh rocks round, and every breath 

it sends. 
Is ravelled to a sigh. All tortured states 
Suppose a straightened place. Jehovah 

Lord, 
Make room for rest, around me ! Out 

of sight 
Now float me, of the vexing land 

abhorred. 
Till, in deep calms of space, my .soul 

may right 
Her nature : shoot large sail on length- 
en mg cord. 
And rush exultant on the Infinite. 



TWO SKETCHES. 



The shadow of her face upon the wall 
May take your memory to the perfect 

Greek ; 
But when you front her, you would call 

the check 
Too full, sir, for your models, if withal 
That bloom it wears could leave you 

critical. 
And that smile reaching toward the rosy 

streak : 
For one who smdes so, has no need to 

speak 
To lead your thoughts along, as steed to 

stall ! 
A smile that turns the sunny side o' the 

heart 
On all the world, as if herself did win 
By what .=he lavished on an open 

mart : — 
Let no man call the liberal sweetness, 

sin, — 
While friends may whisper, as they 

stand apart. 
" Methinks there's still some wanner 

place within." 



SONNETS. 



87 



Her azure eyes, dark lashes hold in fee ; 
Her fair superfluous ringlets, without 

check. 
Drop after one another down her neck ; 
As many to each cheek as you might see 
Green leaves to a wild rose. This sign 

outwardly. 
And a like woman-covering seems to 

deck 
Her inner nature. For she will not fleck 
World's sunshine with a finger. Sym- 
pathy 
Must call her in Love's name I and then, 

I know, 
She rises up, and brightens as she should, 
And lights her smile for comfort, and is 

slow 
In nothing of high-hearted fortitude. 
To smell this flower, come near it ; such 

can grow 
In that sole garden where Christ's brow 

dropped blood. 



THE POET. 

The poet hath the child's sight in his 

breast. 
And sees all new. What oftenest he 

has viewed, 
He views with the first glory. Fair and 

good 
Pall never on him, at the fairest, best, 
But stand before him holy and undressed 
In week-day false conventions, such as 

would 
Drag other men down from the altitude 
Of primal types, too early dispossessed. 
Why, God would tire of all his heaven 

as soon 
As thou, O godlike, childlike poet, 

didst. 
Of daily and nightly sights of .sun and 

moon ! 
And therefore hath He set thee in the 

midst, 
Where men may hear thy wonder's 

ceaseless tune. 
And praise His world for ever as thou 

bidst. 



MOUNTAINEER AND POET 

The simple goatherd, between Alp and 

sky. 
Seeing his shadow in that awful try.st. 
Dilated to a giant's on the mist. 
Esteems not his own stature larger by 
The apparent image, but more patiently 
Strikes his staff' down beneath his 

clenching fist — 
While the snow-mountains lift their 

amethyst 
And sapphire crowns of .splendor, far 

and nigh. 
Into the air around him. Learn from 

hence 
Meek morals, all ye poets that pursue 
Your way still onward, up to eminence I 
Ye are not great, because creation drew 
Large revelations round your earliest 

sense, 
Nor bright, because God's glory shines 

for you. 



HIRAM POWERS' GREEK SLAVE. 

They say Ideal Beauty cannot enter 
The house of anguish. On the thre.sh- 

hold stands 
An alien Image with enshackled hands, 
Called the Greek Slave : as if the artist 

meant her, 
(That passionless perfection which he 

lent her. 
Shadowed not darkened where the sill 

expands) 1 

To, so, confront man's crimes in differ- 
ent lands 
With man's ideal sense. Pierce to the 

centre. 
Art's fiery finger ! — and break up ere 

, long 
The serfdom of this world ! Appeal, 

fair stone. 
From God's pure heights of beauty, 

against man's wrong ! 
Catch up in thy divine face, not alone 



SONNETS, 



East griefs but west, — and strike and 
shame tlie strong, 

By thunders of white silence, over- 
thrown. 



LIFE. 

Each creature holds an insu.ar po.nt in 
space : 

Yet what man stirs a finger, breathes a 
sound. 

But all the multitudinous beings round 

In all the countless worlds, with time 
and place 

For their conditions, down to the central 
base. 

Thrill, haply, in vibration and rebound. 

Life answering life across the vast pro- 
found. 

In full antiphony, by a common grace ! 

1 think, this sudden joyaunce which 
illumes 

A child's mouth sleeping, unaware may 
run 

From .some soul newly loosened from 
earth's tombs ; 

I think, this passionate sigh, which half- 
begun 

1 stifle back, may reach and .stir the 
plumes 

Of God's calm angel standing in the 
sun. 



LOVE. 
We cannot live, except thus mutually 
We alternate, aware or unaware, 
The reflex act of 'ife : and when we 

bear 
Our virtue onward most impulsively. 
Most full of invocation, and to be 
Most instantly compellant. certes, there 
We live most life, whoever breathes 

most air 
And counts his dying years by sun and 

sea. 
But when a so\il, by choice and con- 
science, doth 
Throw out her full force on another soul, 



The conscience and the cnnccntratio.i 

both 
Make mere life. Love. For Life in 

perfect whole 
And aim consummated, is Love in sooth. 
As nature's magnet-heat rounds pole 

with pole. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH, 

' Aiifl tlieri^ Wiia Bilence hi lieiiven lor tiie 
8pace of hiilt'-atl-lioui-. ' — HeveUiliun. 

God, who, with thimders and great 
voices kept 

Beneath thy throne, and stars most sil- 
ver-paced 

Along the inferior gyres, and open-faced 

Melodious angels round ; — canst inter- 
cept 

Music with music ; — yet, at will, has 
swept 

All back, all back, (said he in Patmos 
placed,) 

To fill the heavens with silence of the 
waste. 

Which lasted half-an-hour ! — Lo, I who 
have wept 

All day and night, beseech thee by my 
tears. 

And by that dread response of curse 
and groan 

Men alternate across these hemispheres. 

Vouchsafe us such a half-hour's hush 
alone, 

In compensation for our stormy years ! 

As heaven has paused from song, let 
earth, from moan. 



THE PROSPECT. 

Methinks we do as fretful children do. 
Leaning their faces on the window-pane 
To sigh the glass dim with their own 

breath's stam, 
And shut the sky and landscape from 

their view. 
And thus, alas 1 since God the maker 

drew 
A mystic separation 'twixt those twain, 



SOA'yETS. 



89 



The life beyond us, and our souis in 

pain, 
We miss she prospect which we're called 

unto 
By grief we're fools to vise. Be still 

and strong, 
Oman, my brother 1 hold thy sobbing 

breath, 
And keep thy soul's large window pure 

from wrong, — 
That so, as lite's appointment issueth, 
Thy vision may be clear to watch along 
The sunset consummation-lights of death 



HUGH STUART BOYD.'* 

HtS BLINDNESS. 

God would not let the spheric Lights 

accost 
This God-loved man, and bade the 

earth stand off 
With all her beckoning hills, whose 

golden stuff 
Under the feet of the royal sun is 

crossed. 
Yet such things were to him not wholly 

lost,— 
Permitted, with his wandering eyes 

light-proof. 
To have fair visions rendered full enough 
By many a ministrant accomplished 

ghost : 
And seeing, to sounds of softly turned 

book-leaves, 
Sappho's crown-rose, and Meleager's 

spring, 
And Gregory's starlight on Greek-bur- 
nished eves ; 



* To whom was iusciibed, in grateful (iflec- 
tlou, my piiem ol ' Cypius Wine.' Tliere comes 
a moment in lile wlien even giatiluile iin<l 
afl«ction turn lo pain, as tliey do now witli 
me. Tliia excellent and learned mall, enthu- 
siastic lor the KOOJ and heantllul. ami one oi' 
the most simple and upright of human beings, 
jiassed out o!" Ids long darkness through death 
in the annimer ol' IMi: Dr. Adam Clarke's 
dau^'htcr and biographer, Jli« Smith, 1 happier 
in this than the absent fulfllllng a double filial 
duty H« "he sat by the dsath bad of her lather's 
fri./nd and liais. 



Till Sensuous and Unscnsuous seem one 

thing 
Viewed from one level ; — earth's reapers 

at the sheaves 
Scarce plainer than Heaven's angels on 

the wing 1 



HUGH STUART UOYD. 

HIS DE,'\T1I, 184S. 

Beloved friend, who living many years 
With sightless eyes raised vainly to 

the sun, 
Didst learn to keep thy patient soul in 

tune 
I'o visible nature's elemental cheers 1 
God has not caught thee to new hemi- 
spheres 
Because thou wast aweary of this one :— 
I think thine angel's patience first was 

done, 
And that he spake out with celestial 

tears, 
' Is it enough, dear God ? then lighten so 
This soul that smiles in darkiie.ss !' 

Steadfast friend. 
Who never didst my heart or life mis- 
know. 
Nor eilher's faults too keenly appre- 
hend, — 
How can I wonder when I see thee go 
To join the Dead found faithful to the 
end"! 



HUGH STUART BOYD 



Three gifts the Dying left me ; 

iEschylus, 
And Gregory Nazian^en, and a clock 
Chiming the gradual hours out like a 

flock 
Of stars whose motion is melodious. 
The books were those 1 used to read 

from, thus 
Assisting my dear teacher's soul to 
unlock 



90 



LOVED ONCE. 



The darkness of his eyes : now, mine 

they mock, 
Blinded in turn by tears: now, mur- 
murous 
Sad echoes of my young voice, years 

agonc 
Kntoning from these leaves the GrsBcian 

phrase, 
Return and choke my utterance. Books, 

lie down 
In silence on the shelf there, within 

gaze I 
And thou, clock, striking the hour's 

pulses on. 
Chime in the day which ends these 

parting days 1 



LOVED ONCE. 

I CLASSED, appraising once. 
Earth's lamentable sounds ; the Well-a- 
day. 
The jarring yea and nay. 
The fall of kisses on unanswering clay, 
The sobbed farewell, the welcome 
mournfuller ; — 
But all did leaven the air 
With a less bitter leaven of sure de- 
spair. 
Than these words — 'I loved once.' 

And who saith 'I loved once?' 
Not angels, whose clear eyes, love, love 
foresee. 
Love through eternity. 
And by To Love do apprehend To Be. 
Not God, called Love, his noble 

crown -name, — casting 
A light too broad for blasting ! 
The great God changing not from ever- 
lasting, 
Saith never, ' I loved ONCE.' 

Oh, never is ■ Loved onCE,' 
I'hy word, thou Victim-Christ, mis- 
prized friend 
Thy cross and curse may rend ; 
But having loved Thou lovest to the 

end ! 
It is man's saying — man's. Too weak 
to move 



One sphered star above, 
Man desecrates the eternal God-word, 
Love 
With his No More, and Once. 

How say ye, ' We loved once, ' 
Bla.sphemers ? Is your cnrlh not cold 
Onow, 
Mourners, without that snow ? 
Ah, friends I and would ye wrong each 

other so ? 
And could ye .say of some whose love 
is known. 
Whose prayers have met your own, 
Whose tears have fallen for you, who.se 
smiles have shone 
So long,—' We loved them once?' 

Could ye, ' We loved her once,' 
Say calm of we, sweet friends, when 
out of sight ? 
When hearts of better right 
Stand in between me and your happy 

light? 
And when, as flowers kept too long in 
the shade. 
Ye find my colors fade. 
And all that is not love in me, de- 
cayed ? 
Such words — Ye loved me once ! 

Could ye, ■ We loved her once,' 
Say cold of me when finther put away 

In earth's sepulchral clay ? 
When mute the lips which deprecate 

to-day ? 
Not so ! not then — least then I When 
Life is shriven, 
And Death's full joy is given, — 
Of those who sit and love you up in 
Heaven, 
Say not, ' We loved them once.' 

Say never, ye loved ONCE ! 
God is too near above, the grave, be- 
neath. 
And all our moments breathe 
Too (juick in mysteries of life and 

death. 
For such a word. The. eternities avenge 

Affections light of range — 
There comes no change to justify that 
change, 
Whatever comes^Inved once 1 



A RHAPSODY or LIFE'S PROGRESS. 



91 



And yet that same word once 
Is humanly acceptive ! Kings have 
said 
Shakmg a discrowned head, 
* We ruled once,' — dotards, ' We once 

taught and led ' — 
Cripples once danced i' the vines — and 
bards approved. 
Were once by scornmgs, moved : 
But love strikes one hour — love. Those 
never loved. 
Who dream that they loved once. 



A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PRO- 
GRESS, t 

" Fill all tlie stops of lifu willi tmic'iil IneHtli." 
l^mtits on Mtn, bij ('unteliiis M itlta'tcn.* 

We are borne into life — it is sweet, it is 

strange ! 

We lie still on the knee of a mild Mys- 
tery, 
Which smile with a change ! 

But we doubt not of changes, we know 
not of spaces ; 

The Heavens seem as near as our own 
mother's face is. 

And we think we conld touch, all the 
stars that we see ; 

And the milk of our mother is white on 
our mouth ! 

And, with small childish hands, we are 
turning around 

The apple of Life which another has 
found ; 

It is warm with our touch, not with sun 
of the south. 

And we count, as we turn it, the red 
side for four — 

O Life, O Beyond, 

Thou art sweet, thoti art strange ever- 
more. 

Then all things look strange in the pure 

golden a;ther : 
We walk through the gardens with 

hands linked together, 

* \ pinall vi.liinle, l>v an .^niKviran j.oet— as 
renmrkabli;, in tluiiu-ht aiirl manner, l(.i- a vi- 
I il Blllewy Vii'or, ui the rii'lit mill ot Patli- 
finUer. 



And the lilies look large as the trees : 
And as loud as the birds, sing the 

bloom-loving bees. 
And the birds sing like angels, so mys- 
tical line ; 
And the cedars are brushing the arch^ 

angel's feet ; 
And time is eternity, — love is divine. 

And the world is complete. 
Now, God bless the child, — father, 
mother, respond ! 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Thou art strange, thou art sweet. 

Then we leap on the earth with the ar- 
mor of youth. 
And the earth rings again : 

And we breathe out, ' O beauty,' — we 
cry out, ' O truth,' 

And the bloom of our lips drops with 
wine ; 

And our blood runs amazed 'neath the 
calm hyaline. 

The earth cleaves to the foot, the sun 
burns to the brain, — 

What is this exultation, and what this 
despair ? — 

The strong pleasure is smiting the nerves 
into pain, 

And we drop from the Fair as we climb 
to the Fair, 
And we lie in a trance at its feet ; 

And the breath of an angel cold-pierc- 
ing the air 
Breathes fresh on our faces in swoon ; 

And we think him so near, he is this 
side the sun ; 

And we wake to a whisper self-mur- 
mured and fond, 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 

And the winds and the waters in pasto- 
ral mea.sures 

Go winding around us, with roll upon 
roll. 

Till the soul lies within in a circle of 
pleasures 
Which hideth the soul : 

And we run with the stag, and we leap 
with the horse. 

And we swim with the fish through the 
broad watercourse, 



92 A KHAPSODY OF 


LIFE'S PROGRESS. 


And we strike with the falcon, and hunt 


Strike the dole on the weal, overcoming 


with the hound. 


the dole. 


And the joy which is in us, flies out by 


Let the cloud meet the cloud in agrand 


a wound ; 


thunder-roll ! 


And we shout so aloud, 'We exult, we 


While the eagle of Thought rides the 


rejoice,' 


tempest in .scorn. 


That we lose the low moan of our 


Who cares if the lightning is burning 


brothers around. 


the corn ? 


And we shout so a deep down creation':: 


Let us sit on the thrones 


profound. 


In a purple .sublimity, 


We are deaf to God's voice — 


And grind down men's bones 


And we bind the rose-garland on fore- 


To a pale unanimity ! 


head and ears. 


Speed me. Cod ! — serve me, man 1 — I 


Vet we are not ashamed ; 


am god over men ! 


And the dew of the roses that runneth 


When I speak in my cloud, none .shall 


unblamed 


answer agair. — 


Down our cheeks, is not taken for 


'Neath the stripe and the bond. 


tears. 


Lie andgnourn at m y feet ! ' — 


Help us. Cod, trust us, man, love us. 


O thou Life, O Beyond, 


woman ! I hold 


Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 


Thy small head in my hands, — with its 




grapclets of gold 


Then we grow into thought, — and with 


Growing bright through my fingers, — 


inward ascensions. 


like altar for oath. 


Touch the bounds of our Being i 


'Neath the vast golden spaces like wit- 


We lie in the dark here, swathed doubly 


nessing faces 


around 


That watch the eternity strong in the 


With our sensual relations and social 


troth — 


conventions. 


I love thee, I leave thee. 


Yet are 'ware of a sight, yet are 'ware of 


Live for thcc, die for thee 1 


a soimd 


I prove thee, deceive thee. 


Beyond Hearin.g and Seein.g, — 


Undo e\'ermore thee I 


Are aware that a Hades rolls deep on all 


Help me, God, slay me, man ! — one is 


sides 


mourning for both !' 


With its infinite tides 


And we stand up though young near 


About and above us, — until the stronir 


the funeral-^heet 


arch 


Which covers the Caesar and old Phar- 


Of our life creaks and bends as if ready 


amond ; 


for falling. 


And death is so nigh us, Life cools from 


And through the dim rolling, wc hear 


Its heat — 


the sweet calling 


O Life, O Beyond, 


Of spirits that speak in a soft under- 


Art thou fair, — art thou sweet ? 


tongue 




The sense of the mystical march : 




And we cry to them .softly, ' Come 


Then we act to a purpose — we spring 


nearer, come nearer. 


up erect — 


And lift up the lap of this Dark, and 


We will tame the wild mouths of the 


speak clcare-, 


wilderness steeds ; 


And teach us the song that ye sung.' 


We will plough up the deep in the ships 


And we smile in our thought if they 


double decked ; 


answer or no. 


We will build the great cities, and do 


For tD dream of a sweetne.ss is sweet as 


the great deeds. 


to know ! 


Strike the steel upon steel, strike t'.n ioul 


Wonders breathe in our face 


upon SOtll. 1 


And wc ask not their name ; 



A KHArSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 



93 



Love takes all the blame 
Of the world's prison-place. 
And we sing back the songs as we guess 

them, aioud ; 
And we send up the lark of our music 
that cuts 
Untired through the cloud, 
To beat v ith its wings at the lattice 

Heaven shuts : 
Yet the angels look down and the mor- 
tals look up 
As the little wings beat. 
And the poet is blest with their pity or 

hope 
'Twixt the Heavens and the earth can a 
poet despond ? 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 

Then we wring from our souls their 

applicative strength. 
And bend to the cord the strong bow of 

our ken, 
And bringing our lives to the level of 

others 
Hold the cup we have filled, to their 

uses at length. 
' Help me, God ! love me, man ! I am 

man among men. 
And my life is a pledge 
Of the ease of another's ! ' 
From the fire and the water we drive out 

the steam. 
With a rush and a roar and the speed of 

.T dream ! 
And the car without horses, the car 

without wings 
Roars onward and flies 
On its grey iron edge, 
'Neath the heat of a Thought sitting 

still in our eyes — 
And the hand Knots in air, with the 

bridge that it flings. 
Two peaks far disrupted by' ocean and 

skies — 
A.iid, lifting a fold of the .smooth flowing 

Thames, 
Draws under the world with its turmoils 

and pothers ; 
While the swans float on softly, un- 
touched in their calms 
By Humanity's hum at the root of the 

springs I 



And with teachings of Thought we 
reach down to the deeps 
Of the souls of our brothers. 
And teach them full words with our 

slow-moving lips 
' God,' ' Liberty,' ' Truth,' — which they 

hearken and think 
And work into harmony, link upon 

link. 
Till the silver meets round the earth 

gelid and dense. 
Shedding sparks of electric respondence 
intense 
On the dark of Eclipse ! 
Then we hear through the silence and 
glory r.far. 
As from shores of a star 
In aphelion, — the new generations that 

cry. 
Disenthralled by our voice to harmoni- 
ous reply. 
' God,' ' Liberty,' ' Truth ! ' 
We are glorious forscolh — 
And our name has a seat. 
Though the shroud should be donned ! 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 

Help me, God^help me, man ! I am 

low, [ am weak — 
Death loosens my sinews and creeps in 

in my veins ; 
My body is cleft by these wedges of 
pains 
From my spirit's serene ; 
And 1 feel the externe and insensate 
creep in 
On my organized clay. 
1 sob not, nor shriek. 
Yet 1 faint fa.st away ! 
I am strong in the spirit, — deep- 

thoughted, clear eyed, — 
I could walk, step for step, with a angel 
beside, 
On the Heaven-heights of Truth ! 
Oh, the soul keeps its youth — 
But the body faints sore, it is tired in 

the race. 
It sinks from the chariot ere reaching 
the goal ; 
It is weak, it is cold. 
The rein drops from its hold — 
It sinki back with the death in its face. 



THE HOUSE OF CLOUDS. 



On, chariot — on, soul. 

Ye are all the more fleet — 

Be alone at the goal 

Of the strange and the sweet ! 

Love us God ' love is, man I AVe be- 

lie\-e. ■we achieve — 
Let us love, let us li\-e. 
For the acts correspond — 
AVe are gloriois — and UIK ! 
And again on the knee of a mild Mvs- 

ter\- 
ITiat smiles -with a change. 

Here we lie ! 

O Death, O Beyond, 
'ITiou art sweet, thon art strange ! 



THE HOUSE OF CLOLTDS. 

I v.oiU} hiiild a cloudy House 

For my thoughts to live in : 
When for earth tco £mc>--loo=e. 

And too low for Heaven ! 
Hush I I talk my dream a!oud — 

I builJ it bright to see, — 
I build it on the moonlit cloud 

i. o which I looked with tkce. 

Cloud-walis of the morning's grey. 

Faced with amber column. 
Crowned with crimson cupola 

From a simset solemn ! 
May-mists, for the casements, fetch, 

FSde and glimmering ; 
AV;th a sunbeam hid in each. 

And a smell of spring. 

Bsiild the entrance high and proi-.d. 

Darkening and then brightening, 
■ Oi a riven thunder-cloud. 

Veined by the lightning. 
Use one with an iris-stain 

For the door within ; 
Turning to a soimd like rain 

.\s we enter in. 

Huild a spacious hall thereby : 

Boldly, never fearing. 
L'se the blue place of the sky 

Wh.ch the wind is clearing ; 
Branched with corridors sublime. 

Flecked with winding stairs — 



5?uch as children wish to climb. 
Following their o\»-n prayers. 

In the mutest cf the house, 

I wiU have my chamber : 
Silence at the door sh.iU ^^ie 

Evening's light of amber. 
Solemnising every mood. 

Softening in degree. 
Turning sadness into good 

-\s I turn the key. 

Be my chamber tapestried 

A\"ith the showers of summer. 
Close, but soundless, — glorified 

A\ hen the simbeams come here ; 
Wandering harper, harping on 

Waters stringed for such. 
Drawing colour for a tune, 

WiUi a vibrant touch. 

Bring a shadow green and still 

From the chestnut forest. 
Bring a purple from the hill. 

When the heat is sorest ; 
Spread them out from wall to wall. 

Carpet- wove aroimd. 
Whereupon the foot shall fall 

In light instead of sound. 

Bring the fantastic cloudlets home 

From the noontide zenith : 
Range for sculptures roi:nd the room 

Xamed as Fancy weeneth : 
Some be Junes, without eyes ; 

XaiaAs, without sources ; 
Some be birds of paradise. 

Some, Olympian horses. 

Bring the dews the birds shake off. 

Waking in the hedges, — 
Those too, perfumed fcr a proof. 

From the lilies' edges : 
From our England's field and moor. 

Bring them calm and white in ; 
Whence to form a mirror prje 

For love's self-delighting. 

Bring a grey cloud from the east 
Where the lark is singing ; 

Something of the song at least, 
L'nlo^t in the bringing : 

Thai shall tc a morning chair. 
Poet-dream may sit in. 



CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 9S 


When it leans out on the air. 


Only saying 


Unrhymed and unwritten. 


In heart-playing. 




' Blessed eyes mme eyes have been. 


Bring the red cloud from the sun ! 


If the sweetest, his have seen ! ' 


Wnile he sinketh, catch it. 




That shall be a couch, — with one 


But all changes. .\t this vesper. 


Sidelong star to watch it, — 


Cold the sun shines down the door. 


Fit for poet's finest thought 


If you stood there, would you whLspcr 


At the curfew-sounding, ■ 


' Love, I love you,' as before, — 


Things unseen being nearer brought 


Death pervading 


Than the seen, around him. 


Now, and shading 




Eyes you sang of, that yestreen. 


Poet's thought, — not poet's sighs 


As the sweetest ever seen ? 


'Las, they come together ! 




Cloudy walls divide and fly. 


Yes ! I think, were you beside them. 


As m April weather 1 


Near the bed I die upon, — 


Cupola and column proud. 


Though their beauty you denied them. 


Structure bright to see— 


-As you stood there looking down. 


Gon; ! — e.xcept that moDnlit cloud. 


You would truly 


To which I looked with thee ! 


Call them duly. 




For the love's sake found therein, — 


Let them ! Wipe such visionings 


' Sweetest eyes were ever seen.' 


From the Fancy's cartel — 




Love secures some fairer things 


And \i you looked down upon them. 


Dowered with his immortal. 


And if tliey looked up to you. 


The sun may darken, — heaven be 


All the light which has foregone them 


bowed — 


Would be gathered back anew ! 


But still unchanged shall be, — 


They would truly 


Here in my soul, — that moonlit cloud. 


Be as duly 


To which 1 looked with thee : 


Love-transformed to Beauty's sheen ,-^ 




' Sweetest eye, were ever seen.' 
But, ah me ! you only see me 






In your thoughts of loving man. 




Smiling soft perhaps and dreamy 


CATARINA TO CAJ^IOENS. 


Through the wavings of my fan. — 




And unwceting 


Dyin^ in his absence abroad, and re- 


Go repeating. 


ferrin^: to the poem in ivhich he 


In your revene serene. 


recorded tlie siueetness of her eyes. 


' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 


0.\- t'le door you will not enter. 


While my spirit leans and reaches 


I have gazed too long — adieu ! 


From my body still and pale. 


Hope withdraws her peradventure— 


Fain to hear what tender speech is 


Death is near me, — and not yifu .' 


In your love to help my bale — 


Come, lover ! 


ray poet 1 


Close and cover 


Come and show it ! f 


These poor eyes, you called, 1 ween. 


Come, of latest love to glean 


' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 


• Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 


When I heard you sing that burden 


O my poet, O my prophet. 


In my vernal days and bowers. 


When you praised their sweetne^ so. 


Other praises disregarding. 


Did you think, in singing of it. 


1 but hearkened that of youi=, — 


That It might be near to go ? 







CATAKLVA TO CAMDEN'S. 



Had you fancies 

From their glances. 
That the grave would quickly screen 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?" 

No reply ! The fountains warble 
In the court-yard sounds alone. : 
As the water to the marble 
Sj my heart falls with a moan. 
From love-sighing 
To this dying ! 
Deith forerunneth Love, to win 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

/K/// you come ? when I'm departed 

Where all sweetnesses are hid — 
When thy voice, my tender-hearted. 
Will not lift up either lid. 
Cry, O lover. 
Love is over ! 
Cry beneath the cypress green — 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

When the angelus is ringing, 

Near the convent will you walk. 
And recall the choral smging 

Which brought angels down our talk ? 
Spirit-shriven 
I viewed Heaven, 
Til! you smiled — ' Is earth unclean. 
Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' 

When beneath the palace-lattice. 

You ride slow as you have done. 
And you see a face there^t/iat is 
Not the old familiar one, — 
Will you oftly 
IVIurmur softly, 
' Here, ye watched me morn and e'en. 
Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 

When the palace ladies sitting 

Round your gittern, shall have said, 
' Poet, sing those verses written 
For the lady who is dead,' 
Will you tremble. 
Yet dissemble, — 
Or sing hoarse, with tears between, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' 

Sweetest eyes ! How sweet in flowings. 

The repeated cadence is ! 
Though you sang a hundred poem.s. 



Still the best one would he this. 
I can hear it 
'Twixt my spirit 
And the earth noise intervene — 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

But the priest waits for the praying. 
And the choir are on their knees. 
And the soul must pass away in 

Strains more solemn high than these! 
Miserere 
For the weary — 
Oh, no longer for Catrine, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 

Keep my riband, take and keep it, 
1 have loosed it from my hair ;* 
Feeling, while you overweep it, 
Not alone in your despair. 
Since with saintly 
Watch, unfaintly, 
Out of Heaven shall o'er you lea|j 
'Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

But — but tioiv — yet imremoved 

Up to Heaven, they glisten fa.st : 
You may cast away. Beloved, 
In your future all my past ; 
Such old phrases 
May be praises 
For some fairer bosom-queen — 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 

Eyes of mine, what aie ye doing? 

Faithless, faithless — praised amiss 
If a tear be of your showing. 
Drop for any hope of his ! 
Death hath boldness 
Besides coldness. 
If imworthy tears demean 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

I -will look out to his future — 

I will bless it till it shuie : 
Should he ever be a suitor 
Unto sweeter eyes than mine. 
Sunshine gild them. 
Angels shield them, 
Whatsoever eyes terrene 
Be the .sweetest his have seen ! 

* she left liiui Hit; libaiid troni lier haii. 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

Given to me by H. S. Boyd, Esq., author 
of " Select Passages from the Greek 
Fathers," etc., to tuhoiit these stan- 
zas-are addressed. 

If old Bacchus were the speaker 

He would tell you with a sigh, 
Of the Cyprus in this beaker 

I am sipping like a fly,— 
Like a fly or gnat on Ida 

At the hour of goblet-pledge, 
By Queen Juno brushed aside, a 

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. 

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler 

When the drink is so divine ; 
And some deep-mouthed Greek e.xem- 
plar 

Would become your Cyprus wine ; 
Cyclops' mouth would plunge aright in. 

While his one eye over-leered — 
Nor too large were mouth of Titan, 

Drinking rivers down his beard. 

Pan might dip his head so deep in 

That his ears alone pricked out ; 
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping. 

Each one pointing to his throat : 
While the Naiads like Bacchantes, 

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste. 
Cry — ' O earth, that thou wouldst grant 
us 

Springs to keep, of such a taste !' 

But for me, I am not worthy 

After gods and Greeks to drink ; 
And my lips are pale and earthy 

To go bathing from this brink ! 
Since you heard them speak the last 
time. 

They have faded from their blooms ; 
And the laughter of my pastime 

Has learnt silence at the tombs. 

Ah, my friend I the antique drinkers 
Crowned the cup and crowned the 
brow : 

Can I answer the old thinkers 

In the forms they thought of. now ? 

Who will fetch from garden closes 
Some new garlandii while I speak? 



That the forehead, crowned with roses, 
May strike scarlet down the cheek 'i 

Do not mock me ! with my mortal. 

Suits no wreath again, indeed! 
I am sad- voiced as the turtle 

Which Anacreon tised to feed : 
Vet as that same bird demurely 

Wet her beak in cup of his, 
So, without a garland, surely 

1 may touch the hriin of this. 

Go !— let others praise the Chian ! — 

This is soft as Muses' string — 
Tins is tawny as Rhea's lion. 

This is rapid r^s its spring. 
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us. 

Light as ever trod her feet ! 
And the brown bees of Hymettus 

Make their honey not so sweet. 

Very copious are my praises. 

Though I sip it like a fly ! — 
Ah — but, sipping — times and places 

Change before me suddenly — 
As Ulysses' old libation 

Drew the ghosts from every part, 
So j'our Cyprus wine, dea'- Graecian. 

Stirs the Hades of my heart. 

And I think of those long mo-nings. 

Which my Thought goes far to seek. 
When, betwixt the folio's turnings. 

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek- 
Past the pane the mountain spreading. 

Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise. 
While a girlish voice was reading, 

Somewhat low for rtz's and oi's. 

Then what golden hours were for us !— 

While we sate together there, 
How the white vests of the chorus 

Seemed to wave up a live air 1 
How the cothurns trod majestic 

Down the deep iambic lines : ' 

Arid the rolling anapaestic 

Curled like vapor over shrines ! 

Oh, our vEschylus, the thunderr'us ! 

How he drove the bolted breafb 
'I'hiough the cloud, to wedge it ponder, 
ous 



ly/NIt OF CVPKCS. 



In the gnarled oak beneath. 
Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, 

Who was born to monarch's place — 
And who made the whole world loyal, 

Less by kingly power than grace. 

Our Euripides, the human — 

With his droppings of warm tears ; 
And his touches of things common. 

Till they rose to touch the spheres 1 
Our Theocritus, our Bion, 

And our Pindar's .shining goals! — 
These were cup-bearers undying, 

Of the wine that's meant for souls. 

And my Plato, the divine one, 

If men know the gods aright 
By their motions as they shine on 

With a glorious trail of light ! 
And your noble Christian bishops. 

Who mouthed grandly the last Greek : 
Though the sponges on their hys.sops 

Were distent with wine — too weak. 

Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him 

As a liberal mouth of golcf ; 
And your Basil, you upraised him 

To the height of speakers old : 
And we both praised Meliodorus 

For his secret of pure lies ; — 
Who forged first his linked stories 

In the heat of lady's eyes. 

And we both praised your Synesius, 

For the fire shot up his odes : 
Though the Church was scarce propi- 
tious 

As he whistled dogs and gods. 
And we both praised Nazianzen, 

For the fervid heart and speech : 
Only I eschewed his glancing 

At the lyre hung out of reach. 

Do vou mind that deed of Ate, 

Which you bound me to so fast, — 
Reading " D« Vlrglnitate," 

From the first line to the last ? 
How I said ,it triding. solemn. 

As I turned a", j looked at you. 
That St. Simton on the column 

Bad had som»«i'hat less to do ? 



For we sometimes gently wrangled 

Very gently, be it said. 
For our thoughts were disentangled 

By no breaking of the thread ! 
And I charged you with e.Mortions 

On the nobler fames of old — 
Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons 

Stained the purple they would fold. 

For the rest — a mystic moaning, 

Kept Cassandra at the gate. 
With wild eyes the \ ision ^hone in 

And wide nostril.s i-centing fate. 
And Proinethous, bound in passion 

By brute Force to the blind stone. 
Showed us looks cf invocation 

Turned to ocean and the sun. 

And Medea we saw burning 

At her nature's planted stake ; 
And proud CEdipus. fate-scorning 

While the cloud came on to break — 
While the cloud came on slow — slower 

Till he stood discrowned, resigned ! 
But the reader's voice dropped lower 

When the poet called him blind ! 

Ah, my gossip I yon were older. 

And more learned, and a man ! 
Vet that shadow^the cnfolder 

Of your quiet eyelids — ran 
Doth our spirits to one level ; 

And 1 turned from hill and lea 
And the summer-suns green revel, 

I'o your eyes that could not see. 

Now Christ bless you with the one light 

Which goes shining night and day ! 
May the flowers which grow in sunlight 

Shed their fragrance in your way 1 
Is it not right to remember 

All your kindness, friend of mine. 
When we two sat in the chamber, 

-A.nd the poets poured us wine ? 

So, to come back to th/; drinking 

Of this Cyprus ! — it is well — 
But those memories, to my thinking. 

Make a better renomel : 
And whoever be the -jpraker. 

None can murmur with a sigh 
That, in drinkinc from //lat beaker, 

I am sipping like a fly. 



THE DEAD PAN. 



99 



THE DEAD PAN. 

Exciteil by ScUillur's ' Gotter (Jik'cl).n- 
Iau.l3/ iiiid p.irtly louiitieil oil a weii-knuAii 
ti-ii'litioll uielitloueil in a treatise ot yiulai-ch, 
t'l>e OiMC'ulorum Daiectu,' ^ according to wuicii, 
at tlis liou.- of the Saviour's agony, a cry (»1 
* Gi'eut l*.iu is dead !* swept across tJie waves 
ill the lieariux of certain mariners,— and tue 
oracles ceased. 

It is in all veneration to the memory of llie 
deatliless Schiller, tliat 1 oppose a doctrine 
still more disUoiioriUi; to poetry than to Ciiris- 
tiantty. 

A3 Mr. Kenyon's frraceful and harnioiiions 
jiarajilirase o: the GiMioaii poem was the tiist 
occasion of the tiuiiui,- nl iiiv tliouslits in tliis 
direction, 1 tal;e a.lvaiitase ot the preteiico to 
iiidnlKe my teeliii-s iwhioli overflow on otiier 
gronnls by iiisciil»ih^' mv lyric to tlmt dear 
irienJ and rehitive, with' the earnestness ot 
ai)preciatins esteem as well as ot allectioliate 
i;ratitndc. 

Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, 
Can ye listen in your silence ? 
Can your mystic voices tell us 
Where ye hide ? In floating islands. 
With a wind that evermore 
Keeps you out of sight of shore ? 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

In what revels are ye sunken. 

In old Ethiopia ? 

Have the Pygmies made you drunken 

Bathing in mandragora 

Your divine pale lips that shiver 

Like the lotus in the river ''. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Do ye sit there still in slumber. 
In gigantic Alpine rows ? 
The black poppies out of number 
Nodding, dripping from your brows 
To the red lees of your wine. 
And so kept alive and fine ''. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Or lie crushed your stagnant corses 
Where the silver spheres roll on. 
Stung to life by centric forces 
Thrown like rays out from the sun ". — 
While the smoke of your old altars 
Is the shroud that round you welters ? 
Great Pan is dead. 

Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, 
Said the old Hellenic tongue ! 



Said the hero-oaths, as well as 
Poet's songs the sweetest sung, 
Have ye grown deaf in a day ? 
Can ye speak not yea or nay — 

Since Pan is dead ? 

Do ye leave your rivers flowing 

All along, O Naiades, 

While your drenched locks dry .slow in 

T.his cold feeble sun and breeze ''. 

Not a word the Naiads say, 

Though the rivers run for aye. 

For Pan is dead. 

From the gloaming of the oak wood, 
O ye Dryads, could ye flee ? 
At the rushing thunderstroke, would 
No sob tremble through the tree ''. — 
Not a word the Dryads say. 
Though the forests wave for aye. 
For Pan is dead. 

Have ye left the mountain places. 
Oreads wild, for other tryst? 
Shall we see no sudden faces 
Strike a glory through the mist ? 
Not a sound the silence thrills 
Of the everlasting hills. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

O twelve gods of Plato's vision. 
Crowned to starry wanderings,— 
With your chariots in procession. 
And your silver clash of wings 1 
Very pale ye seem to rise. 
Ghosts of Grecian deities — 

Nov/ Pan is dead ! 

Jove, that right hand is unloaded. 
Whence the thunder did prevail ; 
While in idiocy of godhead 
Thou art .staring the stars pale ! 
And thine eagle, blind and old, 
Roughs his feathers in the cold. 

Pan, Pan is deacA- 

Where, O Juno, is the glory 
Of thy regal look and tread ! 
Will they lay, for evermore, thee. 
On thy dim, straight golden bed "i 
Will thy queendom all lie hid 
Meekly under either lid 1 

Pan, Pan is dead. 



THE DEAD PAN. 



Ha, Apollo ! Floats his golJen 
Hiir all mist-like where he stands ; 
Wnile the Miises hang enfolding 
Knee and foot with faint wild hands ? 
'Neath the clanging of thy bow, 
Niobe looked lost as thou ! 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Shall the casqne with its brown iron, 
Pallas' broad blue tyes, eclipse 
And no hero take inspiring 
From the God-Greek of her lips ? 
'Neath her olive dost thou sit. 
Mars th.3 mighty, cursing it ? 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Bacchus, Bacchus ! on the panther 

He swoons, — bound with his own vines ! 

And his Maenads slowly saimter. 

Head aside, among the pines. 

While they murmur dreamingly, 

' Evohe — ah — evohe — ! ' 

Ah, Pan is dead. 

Neptune lies beside the trident. 
Dull and senseless as a stone : 
And old Pluto deaf and silent 
Is cast out into the sun. 
Cires smileth stern thereat, 
' We all now are desolate — ' 

Now Pan is dead. 

Aphrodite I dead and driven 
As thy native foam, thou art. 
With the cestus long done heaving 
On the white calm of thy heart ! 
Ai Adonis ! At that shriek 
Not a tear runs down her cheek — 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

And the Loves we used to know from 
One another, — huddled He, 
Frore as taken in a snow-storm. 
Close beside her tenderly, — 
As if each had weakly tried 
Once to kiss her as he died. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

What, and Hermes ! Time enthralleth 
All thy cunning, Hermes, thus, — 
And the ivy blmdly crawleth 
Round thy brave caduceus ! 
Hast thou no new message for us. 
Full of thimder and Jove-glories? 

Nay, Pan is dead. 



Crowned Cybele's great turret 
Rocks and crumbles on her head : 
Roar the lions of her chariot 
Towards the wilderness, unfed : 
Scornful children are not mute. — 
' Mother, mother, walk a-foot — 

Since Pan is dead I' 

In the fiery-hearted centre 
Of the solemn universe, 
Ancient Vesta, — who could enter 
To consume thee v/ith this curse? 
Drop thy grey chin on thy knee, 
O thou palsied Mystery ! 

For Pan is dead. 

Gods ! we vainly do adjure you, — 
Ye return nor voice nor sign : 
Not a votary could secure you 
Even a grave fur your Divine ! 
Not a grave, to show thereby. 
Here these g7-ey old gods do lie ! 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Even that Greece who took your wages. 
Calls the obolus outworn ; 
And the hoarse deep-throated ages 
Laugh your .godships unto scorn — 
And the Poets do disclaim you. 
Or grow colder if they name you — 
And Pan is dead. 

Gods bereaved, gods belated, 
With your purples rent asunder ! 
Gods discrowned and desecrated. 
Disinherited of thunder ! 
Now, the goats may climb and crop 
The soft grass on Ida's top — 

Now Pan is dead. 

Calm, of old, the bark went onward. 
When a cry more loud than wind. 
Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward. 
From the pile J Dark behind : 
And the sun shrank and grew pale. 
Breathed against by the !;reat wail — 
Pan, Pan is dead. 

And the rowers from the benches 
P'ell, — each shuddering on his face — 
While departing Influences 
Struck a cold back through the place : 
And the shadow of the ship 
Reeled along the passive deep — 

Pan, Pan is dead. 



THE DEAD PAN. 



And that dismal cry rose slowly, 
And sank slowly through the air ; 
Full of spirit's melancholy 
And eternity's despair ! 
And they heard the words it said — 
Pan is dead— Great Pan is dead- 
Pan, Pan is dead. 

'Twas the hour when One in Sion 
Hung for love's sake on a cross — 
When His brow was chill with dying. 
And His soul was faint with loss ; 
When his priestly blood dropped down- 
ward. 
And His kingly eyes looked throne- 
ward — 

Then, Pan was dead. 

By the love He stood alone in. 
His sole Godhead stood complete : 
And the false gods fell down moaning, 
Each from off his golden seat^ 
All the false Gods with a cry 
Rendered up their deity — 

Pan, Pan was dead. 

Wailing wide across the islands. 
They rent, vest-like, their Divine! 
And their darkness and a silence 
Quenched the light of every .shrine : 
And Dodona'soak swang lonely 
Henceforth, to the tempest only. 

Pan, Pan was dead. 

Pythia staggered, — feeling o'er her. 

Her lost god's forsaking look ! 

Straight her eye-balls filmed with horror. 

And her crispy fillets shook — 

And her lips g.asped through their foam. 

For a word that did not come. 

Pan, Pan was dead. 

O ye vain false gods of Hellas, 
Ye are silent evermore ! 
And I da'^h down this old chalice. 
Whence libations ran of yore. 
See ! the wine crawls in the dast 
Wormlike — as your glories must ! 

Since Pan is dead. 

Get to dust, as common mortals. 
By a common doom and track ! 
Let no Schiller from the portals 



Of that Hades, call you back. 
Or instruct us to weep all 
At your antique funeral. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

By your beauty, which confesses 
Some chief Beauty conquering you. — 
By our grand heroic guesses. 
Through your falsehood, at the True, — 

We will weep -not .' earth shall roll 

Heir to each god's aureole — 

And Pan is dead. 

Earth outgrows the mythic fancies 
Sung beside her in her youth : 
Aniithose debonaire romances 
Sound but dull beside the truth. 
Phoebas' chariot-course is run ! 
Look up, poets, to the sun ! 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Christ hath sent us down the angels ; 

And the whole earth and the skies 

Are illumed by altar candles 

Lit for blessed mysteries : 

And a Priest's Hand through creation, 

Waveth calm and consecration— 

And Pan is dead. 

Truth is fair : should wc forego it ? 
Can we sigh right for a wrong '>. 
God Himself is the best Poet, 
And the Real is His song. 
Sing his Truth out fair and full, 
And secure his beautiful. 

Let Pan l)c dead. 

Truth is large. Our aspiration 
Scarce embraces half we be. 
Shame! to stand in His creation 
And doubt Truth's sufficiency ! 
To think God's song une.vcelUng 
The poor tales of our own telling — 

When Pan is dead. 

What is true and just and honest. 
What is lovely, what is pure- 
All of praise that hath admonish'd — 
All of virtue shall endure, — 
These are themes for poets' uses. 
Stirring nobler than the Muses, 

Ere Pan was dead. 



SLEEPING AND WATCHING. 



O brave poets, keep back nothing ; 
Nor mix falsehood witli the whole ! 
Look up Godward ! speak the truth in 
Worthy song from earnest soul ! 
Hold, in high poetic duty. 
Truest I'ruth the fairest Reauty ! 

Pan, Pan is dead. 



SLEEPING AND WATCHING. 

Sleep on. Baby, on the floor. 

Tired of all the playing. 
Sleep with smile the sweeter for 

That you dropped away in ! 
On your curls' full roundness, stand 

Golden lights serenely — 
One cheek, pushed out by the hand. 

Folds the dimple inly : 
Little head and little foot 

Heavy laid for pleasure. 
Underneath the lids half shut. 

Slants the shining azure ; — 
Open-soul in noonday sun, 

So, you lie and slumber ! 
Nothing evil having done. 

Nothing can encumber. 

/, who cannot sleep as well. 

Shall I sigh to view you ? 
Or sigh further to foretell 

All that may undo you ? 
Nay, keep smiling, little child. 

Ere the sorrow neareth. 
/will smile too ! Patience mild 

Pleasure's token weareth. 
Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; 

/shall sleep though losing! 
As by cradle, so by cross. 

Sure is the reposing. 

And God knows who sees us twain. 

Child at childish leisure, 
I am near as tired of pain 

As you seem of pleasure ; 
Very soon too, by His grace 

Gently wrapt around me. 
Shall I show as calm a face. 

Shall I sleen as soundly ! 
Differing in this. \.hM you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping. 
While my hand shall drop the few 

Given to my keeping ; 



Differing in this, that / 

Sleeping shall be colder, 
And in waking presently. 

Brighter to beholder ! 
Differing in this beside 

(Sleeper, have you heard me ? 
Do you move, and open wide 

Eyes of wonder towards me ?) — 
That while you, I thus recall 

From your sleep, — I solely. 
Me from mine an angel shall. 

With reveille holy ! 



LESSONS FROM THE GORSE. 

"To will the secret of ft weed's plain Iiearl.'' 
LowKi.r.. 

Mountain gorses, ever golden ! 
Cankered not the whole year long ! 
Do you teach us to be strong. 
Howsoever pricked and holden 
Like your thorny blooms, and so 
Trodden on by rain and snow 
Up the hill-side of this life, as bleak as 
where ye grow ? 

Mountain blossoms, shining blossoms ! 
Do ye teach us to be glad 
When no summer can be had. 
Blooming in our inward bosoms? 
Ye, whom God preserveth still. 
Set as lights upon a hill 
Tokens to the wintry earth that Beauty 
liveth still ! 

Mountain gorses, do ye teach us 
From that academic cliair 
Canopied with azure air. 
That the wisest word Man reaches 
Is the humblest he can speak ? 
JV, who live on mountain peak. 
Yet live low along the ground, bes:de 
the grasses meek ! 

Mountain gorses ! since Linnaeus 
Knelt beside you on the sod. 
For your beauty thanking God. — 
F'or your teaching, ye should see us 
R'lwlng in prostration new. 
Whence arisen — if one or two 
Drops be on our cheeks — O world ! they 
are not tears, but dew. 



A SABBA TH MORNING A T SEA. 



THE CLAIM. 



Grief sate upon a rock and sighed one 
day : 
(Sighing is all her rest ! 
'Wellaway, wellaway, ah, wellaway !' 
As ocean beat the stone, did she lier 

breast. . . 
'Ah, wellaway! . . ah me! alas, all 
me ! ' 
Such sighing uttered she. 



A Cloud spake out of heaven, as soft as 
rain 
That falls on water : " Lo, 
The Winds have wandered from me ! I 

remain 
Alone in the sky-waste, and cannot go 
To lean my whiteness on the mountain 
blue. 
Till wanted for more dew. 

ni. 
'The Sim has struck my brain to weary 
peace. 
Whereby, constrained and pale, 
I spin for him a larger golden fleece 
Than Jason's, yearning for as full a sail I 
Sweet Grief, when thou hast sighed to 
thy mind. 
Give me a sigh for wind, — 



And let it carry me adown the west ! ' 

But Love, who, prostrated. 
Lay at Grief's foot, . . his lifted eyes 

possessed 
Of her full image, . . .answered in her 

stead : 
' Now nay, now nay ! she .shall not give 

away 
AVhat is my wealth, for any Cloud that 

flieth. 
Where Grief makes moan. 
Love claims his own ! 
And therefore do I lie here night and 

day. 
And eke my life out with the breath 

she sigheth.' 



A SABIiATH MORNINC; AT SKA. 



The ship went on with solemn face : 
To meet the darkness on the deep. 
The solemn ship went onward. 
I bowed down v/eary in the place ; 
For parting tears and present sleep 
Had weighed mine eyelids down- 
ward. 



Thick sleep which shut all dreams from 
me, 
And kept my inner self apart 
.'Vnd quiet from emotion, 
Then brake away and left me free. 
Made conscious of a human heart 
Betwi.\t the heaven and ocean. 



The new sight, the new wondrous sight ! 
The waters round me, turbulent, 
The skies impas,sive o'er me, 

Calm in a moonless, sunless light. 
Half glorified by that intent 
Of holding the day-glory ! 



Two pale thin clouds did stand upon 
The meeting line of sea and sky. 
With aspect still and mystic. 
I think they did foresee the sun. 
And rested on their prophecy 
In quietude majestic ; 



Then flushed to radiance where they 
stood. 
Like statues by the open tomb 
Of shining saints half risen. — 
The sun ! — he came up to be viewed ; 
And, sky and sea made mighty room 
To inaugurate the vision ! 



I oft had seen the dawnlight run. 

As red wine, through the hilU, and 
break 
Through many a niist's inurniug ; 



But, lierc, no earth profaned t'.ic sun ! 
Heaven, ocean, did alone partake 
I'he sacrament of morning. 



Away with thoughts fantastical ! 

I would be humble to my worlli. 

Self-guarded as self-doubted. 

Though here no earthly shadows fall, 

I, joying, grieving without earth. 

May desecrate without it. 

VIII. 

God's Sabb.ith morning sweeps tlic 
waves : 
I v/ould not prai.se the pageant high, 
Yet miss the dedicaturc : 
I, carried towards the simless graves 
By force of natural things, — should I 
Exult in only nature ? 

IX. 

And could I bear to sit alone 
'Mid nature's fixed benignities. 

While my warm pulse was moving. 
Too dark thou art, () glittering sun. 
Too strait ye are, capacious seas. 
To satisfy the loving. 



It seems a better lot than so, 

To sit with friends beneath the beech. 
And call them dear and dearer ; 
Or follow children as they go 

In pretty pairs, with softened speech 
As the church-bells ring nearer. 



Love me, sweet friends, this Sabbath 
day. 
The sea sings round me while ye roll 
Afar the hymn unaltered. 
And kneel, where once 1 knelt to pray, 
And bless me deeper in the soul. 
Because the voice has faltered. 



And though this Sabbath comes to me 
Without the stoled minister 
Or chanting congregation, 
God's spirit l)rings communion, Hr 
Who brooded soft on waters drear. 
Creator on creation. 



Himself, I think, shall draw me higher, 
Where keep the saints with harp and 
song 
An endless Sabbath morning, 
And on that sea commixed with lire 
Oft drop their eyelids raised too Ion;; 
To the full Godhead's burning. 



THE MASK. 



I il.^VE a smiling f.ice, she said, 
I have a jest for all I meet ; 

I have a garland for my head 
And all its flowers are sweet, — 

And so you call me gay, she said 



Grief taught to me this smile, she said, 
And Wrong did teach this jesting 
bold ; 
These flowers were plucked from gar- 
den-bed 
While a death-chime was tolled — 
And what now will you say ? — she said. 



Behind no prison-grate, she said. 

Which slurs the sunshine half a mile, 

Live captives so uncomforted. 
As souls behind a smile. 

God's pity let us pray, she said. 



I know my face is bright, she said, — 
Such brightness, dying suns dirt^use I 
1 bear upon my forehead shed 

The sign of what I lose. — 
The ending of my day, she s.aid. 



If I dared leave this smile, she sad. 
And take a moan upon my mouth. 

And tie a cypress round my he.ad. 
And let my tears run smooth, — 

It were the liappier way, she said. 



THE YOUNG QUEEN. 



And since that must not be, she said, 
I fain your bitter world would leave. 

How calmly, calmly, smile the Dead, 
Who do not, therefore, grieve ! 

The yea of Heaven is yea, she said. 



But in your bitter workl, she said. 
Face-joy's a costly mask to wear, 

'Tis bought with pangs long nourished 
And rounded to despair. 

Griefs earnest makes life's play, she 
said. 



Ye weep for those who weep? she said — 
Ah fools ! I bid you pass them by ; 

Go, weep for those whose hearts have 
bled. 
What time their eyes were dry ! 

Whom sadder can I say ? — she said. 



.ST.\NZAS. 

I MAY sing ; but minstrel's singing 
Ever ceaseth with his playing. 
I may smile ; but time is bringing 
Thoughts for smiles to wear away in 
I may view thee, mutely loving ; 
But shall view thee so in dying ! 
I may sigh ; but life's removing. 
And with breathing endelh sighing ! 
Be it so ! 

When no song of mine comes near thee. 
Will its memory fail to soften ? 
When no smile of mine can cheer thee. 
Will thy smile be used as often ''. 
When my looks the darkness boundcth. 
Will thine own be lighted after '? 
When my sigh no longer soundeth. 
Wilt thou list another's laughter ? 

Be it so ! 



THE YOUNG QUEEN. 

This awful respoiiBibility is imiiosed ii 
me 8" siuUleuIy an. I at so early a pc-riml ol 
life, that 1 tihould leel myaell utluily oiiprc! 



hv tlie Imnli'ii, were I nnl sti8t,iin(>cl li.v the 
IiJ.lw Uiat Uivine Pioviatlii-e, wliich has (Hlle.l 
iiiu (II tliis woili, will give hie stleligtli loi Ilia 
l,e.l.Mn,al.(e ol it. 

TllK t^UEK-N'S DkCI.AKATION IN COUNCU.. 

The shroud is yet unspread 
To wrap our crowned dead ; 
His soul hath scarcely barkened for the 
thrilling word of doom ; 
And death that makes serene 
Ev'n brows where crowns have been. 
Hath .scarcely time to meeten his, fur 
silence of the tomb. 

St. Paul's king-dirging note 
Tae city's heart hath smotc^ 
The city's heart is struck with thought 
more solemn than the tone ! 
A shadow sweeps apafc 
Before the Nation's face. 
Confusing in a shapeless blot, the sepul- 
chre and throne. 

The palace sounds with wail — 
The courtly dames are pale — 
A widow o'er the purple bows, and 
weeps Its .splendor dim : 
And we who hold the bcon, 
A king for freedom won. 
Do feel eternity rise up between oi;r 
thanks and him. 

And while things e.xpress 
All glory's nothingness, 
A royal maiden treadeth firm v. here 
that departed trod ! 
The deathly scented crown 
Weighs her shining ringlets down ; 
But calm she lifts her trusting face, and 
calleth upon God. 

Her thoughts are deep within her : 
No outward pageants win licr 
From memories that in her .soi.l r.re 
rolling wave on wave — 
Her palace walls enring 
The dust that was a king — 
And very cold beneath her feet, :.hc 
feels her father's grave. 

And One, as fair as she. 
Can scarce forgotten be, — 



VICTORIA'S TEARS. 



AVho clapped a little infant dead, for all 
a kingdom's worth ! 
The mournb'-l, blessed One, 
Who views Jehovah's throne, 
' Aye smiling to the angels, that she lost 
a throne on earth. 

Perhaps our youthful Queen 
Remembers what has been — 
Her childhood's rest by loving heart, 
and sport on grassy sod — 
Alas ! can others wear 
A mother's heart for her? 
But calm she lifts her trusting face, and 
calleth upon God. 

Yea I on God, thou maiden 
Of spirit nobly laden. 
And leave such happy days behind, for 
happy-making years ! 
A nation looks to thee 
For steadfast sympathy : 
Make room within thy bright clear eyes, 
for all its gathered tears. 

And so the grateful isles 
Shall give thee back their smiles, 
And as thy mother joys in thee, m them 
shalt thoii rejoice ; 
Rejoice to meekly bow 
A somewhat paler brow. 
While the King of kings shall bless thee 
by the British people's voice ! 



VICTORIA'S TEARS. 

H.'irk ! (lie reiterated cl.nii^or Hnnn.ls ! 
Now ninrmuiR, like tlie «eH or iil<i- tlie stnim, 
Or like tlio flames on lorest«, move ami immiil 
Fi'tml rHiik to rank, anil loud and lond«r loll, 
Till all tlie people is one vast ap)>laU8e. 

L.^.NiiKK's (I'eWr. 

" O MAIDEN ! heir of kings I 

A king has left his place ! 
The majesty of death has swept 

All other from his face ! 
And tlum upon thy mother's breast, 

No longer lean adown. 



But take the glory for the rest. 
And rule the land that loves thcc best !" 
She heard and wept — 
She wept, to wear a crown ! 

They decked her courtly halls ; 
'Ihey reined her hundred steeds ; 
They shouted at her palace gate, 

" A noble Queen succeeds !" 
Her name has stirred the mountain's 
sleep 
Her praise has filled the town ! 
And mourners God had stricken deep. 
Looked hearkening up, and did not 
weep. 
Alone she wept. 
Who wept, to wear a crown ! 

She saw no purple shine. 

For tears had dimmed her eyes ; 
■ She only knew her childhood's flowers 

Were happier pageantries ! 
And while her heralds played the part. 

For million shouts to drown — 
"God save the Queen" from hill l.) 

mart, — 
She heard through all her beating heart. 
And turned and wept — 

She wept, to wear a crown ! 

God save thee, weeping Queen ! 

Thou shalt be well beloved ! 
The tyrant's sceptre cannot move. 

As those pure tears have mo\ed ! 
The nature in thine eyes we see. 

That tyiaiiLs cannot own — 
The love that guardeth libertie'- ! 
Strange blessing on the nation lies, 
Whose Sovereign wept — 

Yea ! wept, to wear its crown ! 

God bless thee, weeping Queen, 

With blessing more divine ! 
And fill with happier love than earth's. 

That tender heart of thine! 
That when the thrones of earlh shall be 

As low as graves brought down ; 
A pierced hand may give to thee 
The crown which angels shout to see 1 
Thou wilt not ri'ir/. 

To wear that heavenly crown ! 




>kM 



f I'f 




ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. 



KOMANCH: OF THE SIl^A.V'S jVEST 



ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S 
NEST. 



So the dreams ilepivrt, 

So the liulliu plimitoms lice, 

Ami llie SMiup reality 



Nownicist lu-t i 
Westwoou's * Uka 



FKUM A KOSAKY.' 



Little EUie sits alone 
Mid the beeches of a meadow, 

By a stream-side on the grass ; 

And the trees arc showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow. 

On her shining hair and face. 

She has thrown her bonnet by ; 
And her feet she has been dippmg 

In the shallow water's flow — 

Now she holds them nakedly 
In her hand-;, all sleek and dripping 

While she rocketh to and fro. 



Little Ellic sits alone. 
And the smile she softly uses, 

FilU the silence like a speech ; 

While she thinks what shall be done,- 
And the sweetest pleasure chooses. 

For her future within reach. 



Little Ellie in her smile 
ChoOieth .... * I will have a lover. 

Riding on a steed of steeds ! 

He shall love me without guile ; 
And to /lim I will discover 

That swan's nest among the reeds 



'And the steed shall be red-roan 
And the lover shall be noble. 

With an eye that takes the breath. 

And the lute he plays upon. 
Shall strike ladies mto trouble. 

As his sword strikes men to death. 



'And the steed it shall be shod 
All in silver, housed in azure. 

And ihe mane shall swim the wind : 

And the hoofs along the sod 
Shrill flash onward and keep measure. 

Till the shepherds look behind. 



' But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides ni. 

When he gazes in my face. 

He will say, ' O Love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides in ; 

And I kneel here for thy grace.' 

'Then, ay, then — he shall kneel low_ 
With the red-roan steed anear him 

Which shall seem to understand — 

Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
For the world must love and fear him 

Whom I gift with heart and hand.' 

' Then he will arise so pale, 
I shall feel my own lips tremble 

With a yes I must not say — 

Nathless maiden-brave, ' Farewell,' 
I will utter and dissemble — 

' Light to-morrow with to-day.' 

'Then he'll ride among the hills 
To the wide world past the river. 

There to put away all wrong ; 
To make straight distorted wills. 
And to empty the broad quiver 

Which the wicked bear along. 

'Three times .shall a young foot-page 
Swim the stream and climb the mountain 

And kneel down beside my feet — 

' Lo I my master sends this gage. 
Lady, for thy pity's coimting ! 

What wilt thou exchange for it V 

'And the first. time, I will send 
A white rosebud for a guerdon, — 

And the second time a glove : 

But the third time — I may bend 
From my pride, and answer — ' Pardon — 

If he comes to take my love.' 

'Then the young foot-page will run — 
Then my lover will ride faster. 

Till he kneeleth at my knee : 

' I am a duke's eldest son I 
Thousand serfs do call me master, — 

But, O Love, I love but /Ai'f .' 

' He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then ; and lead me as a lover. 

Through the crowds that praise his 
deeds ; 



to8 A MAIL'S REQUIREMENTS. 


And, when soul -tied by one troth, 


IV. 


Unto Itini I will discover 


Love me with their lids, that fall 


That swan's nest among the reeds.' 


Snow-like at first meeting : 




Love me with thine heart, that all 


Little EUie, with her smile 


The neighbors then see beating. 


Not yet ended, ro;e up gayly, 




Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe— 


V, 


And went homew.xrd. round a mile, 




Just to see, as she did daily, 


Love me with thine hand stretched out 


What more c^gs were with the two. 


F'reely — open-minded : 


' 


Love me with thy loitering foot, — 




Hearing one behind it. 


Pushing through the elm -tree copse 




Winduig by the stream, light-bearted, 




Where the osier pathway leads — 


VI. 


Past the bou!;hs she stoop — an J stops ! 


Love me with thy voice, that turns 


Lo ! the wild swan had dtseiled — 
And a rat IiaJ gnawed the reeds. 


Sudden faint above me : 
Love nie with thy blush that burns 




When I murmur ' Love me ! ' 


Ellie w^nt horn-; sad and slow : 




If she found the 1 5ver ever. 




With his red-roan steed of steeds. 


VII. 


Sooth I know not ! but I know 


Love me with thy thinking soul — 


She could never show him — never, 


Break it to love-sighing ; 
Love me with thy thoughts that roll 


That swan's nest among the reeds 1 




On through living — dying. 




VIII. 




Love me in thy gorgeous airs. 




When the world has crowned thee 1 




Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, 


A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. 


With the angels round thee 


I. 
Love me, sweet, with all thou art, 


IX. 

Love me pure, as musers do. 


Feeling, thinkmg, seeing, — 


Up the woodlands shady : 
Love me gaily, fast, and true. 


Love me in the lightest part, 


Love me in full being. 


As a winsome lady. 


II. 
Love me with thine open youth 


X. 

Through all hopes that keep us brava, 
Further offor nigher. 


In its frank surrender ; 


With the vowing of thy mouth, 


Love me for the house and grave,— 


With Its silence tender. 


And for something higher. 


III. 
Love me with thine azure eyes, 


XI. 

Thus, if thou wilt prove me. dear. 


Made for earnest granting ! 


Woman's love no fable. 


Taking color fro-n the skies. 


/will love //(??— half- a-year— 


Can Heaven's truth be w:iiiting? 


As a man is able. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
PkomKTHEUS. HKPHiESTl/S. 

OuKANUS. 10, dau^^iiterof Iiiacliiifl. 

JlKU.MJiS. STBE.NHTH iMld Foklk. 

Chokus of Ocean Nyjiiplrs. 
ScKXE.— STBKNOTir and Fohck, Hei'u*;stiw 
and l*ltoMETHEU3 cU the Ii(x;ks. 

Strength, 
We reach the utmost limit of the earth, 
The Scythian track, the desert without 

man. 
And now, Hephsestus, thou must needs 

fulfil 
The mandate of our father, and with 

Hnks 
Indissoluble of adamantine chains. 
Fasten against this beetling precipice 
This guilty god ! Because he filched 

away 
Thins own bright flower, the glory of 

plastic fire, 
And gifted mortals with it, — such a sin 
It doth behove he expiate to tie gods, 
Learning to accept the empery of Zeus, 
And leave off his old trick of loving man. 
llcphtxstus. O Strength and Force, — 

for you, or Zeus's will 
Presents a deed for doing. — No more ! 

—but /. 
I lack yoar daring, up this storm-rent 

chasm 
To fix with violent hands a kindred god, 
Howbeit necessity compels me so 
That I must dare it, — and our Zeus com- 
mands 
With a most inevitable word. Ho, thou ! 
High-thoughted son of Themis who is 

sage. 
Thee loth, I loth must rivet fast in 

chains 
.^.gainst this rocky height unclomb by 

man. 
Where never human voice nor face shall 

find 
Out thee who lov'st them ! — and thy 

beauty's flower. 



Scorched in the sun's clear heat, shall 
fade away. 

Night shall come up with garniture of 
stars 

To comfort thee with shadow, and the 
sun 

Disperse with retnckt beams the morn- 
ing frosts ; 

And through all changes, sense of pres- 
ent woe 

Shall vex thee sore, because with none 
of them 

There comes a hand to free. Such fruit 
is plucked 

From love of man ! — for in that thou, a 
god. 

Didst brave the wrath of gods and give 
away 

Undue respect to mortals ; for that 
crime 

Thou art adjudged to guard this joyless 
rock, 

Erect, unslumbering, bending not the 
knee, 

And many a cry and unavailing moan 

To utter on the air ! For Zeus is stern. 

And new-made kings are cruel. 

Strength. Be it so. 

Why loiter in vain pity ? Why not hate 

A god the gods hate ? — one too who be- 
trayed 

Thy glory unto men ? 

Heplnestzcs. An awful thing 

Is kinship joined to friendship. 

Strength. Grant it be ; 

Is disobedience to the Father's word 

A possible thing ? Dost quail not more 
for that ? 
Hephcesttis. Thou, at least, art a 

stern one ! ever bold ! 
Strength. Why, if I wept, it wera 
no remedy. 

And do not thou spend labor on the aii 

To bootless uses. 

Hephcestus. Cursed handicraft I 

I cvirse and hate thee, O my craft ! 
Strength. Why hate 



rnt\Mr.r/rF.rs lun \\n. 



1 hv i:r;ifl mn';t plniiily iiiiKicciil "f :ill 
'1 lios-j peiuliiig ills? 

ltt-^/t<fstus. I woiiUlsnmcpllirr li.iiiil 
W'.' c licio ti) Work it I 

Strength. All Wnrk hath i'.<i pain, 

Excpt to rule the gods. There is none 

free 
r,\ :'>pt King Zcw'.. 

II •filiti'stHs. I know it Very well : 

1 ar^nc not against it. 

Sfrritg-fli. Why not, then. 

Make haste anil lock the fetters over 

IIIM, 

Le-l Zen; behoUl thee lagging 1 

ll-fihtpstus. Here he i hains. 

/^e'l; may behold those. 

S'ri'Hgfh. Seize Inm, — strike amain I 
Strike with the hammer on each side hij^ 

hands— 
Uivct him to the rock. 

Il'fih<rstiis. The Work is done, 

And thoroughly done. 

Slreiigth. Still faster grapple him.— 
Wiidgc him in deeper, — leave no im li 

to stir 1 
He's terrible for finding n way nul 
From the irremediable. 

Ihfiltipsfiis. Here's an arm, at least, 
(tiMppleil |iast freeing. 

Sfri'ng/lt. Now, llirn, Imckle me 
The other Securely. Let this wise one 

learn 
He's duller than onr Zens. 

ikfillicstus. Oh, none but he 

Accuse me justly ! 

Sti-fiigth. Now, straight through tin- 
chest. 
Take him and bite him with thcrliiich 

ing tooth 
Of the adamantine wedge, and rive i 
him. 
Ilifihirstu^. Alas, Prnmetheiis I what 
thou sufforest here 
I sorrow over. 

Sfiitigtii. Post thou flinch again. 
And breathe groans for the enemies of 

Zeus ? 
Hewarc lest thine own jiitv find thee 
out. 
If.-f>h,p:itus riuMi dost behold a spec. 
Iarb_> thai Imiis 
The siglu n' 111., eves (,i ),ity. 

Strength. I behold 
A sinitor suffer his sin's penalty. 



Hilt 1 ish the tliongs nbo'.it Ins sides. 

Ih'/>hirslus. So nine'-', 

I iiiMsl do. Urge no farther than I must. 

Sli'ciigth. Ay, lint I wHl urge I — 

and, with shout on shout. 

Will hound thee at this quarry 1 (let 

Ibce ilovvii 
/\nd ring amain the iron round his legs! 
llifiliiFstiis. 'I'liat work was not long 

doing, 
Shi'iiglli. Heavily now 

I^et fall the strokes upon the perforaiit 

gyves 1 
For ife who rates t)ie work has a heavy 
baud. 
//tfilltFStlls. 'J'hy speech is savage as 

thy sh.ipe. 
Slivngl.'t. He Ibnu 

(lentlc and temlrr I but revile nnt nu; 
I''or the firm will and the niitrni klm^ 
hale. 
Ili/ili,i'x/ii.i. Let us go I 1 le is iicllcil 

round with chains. 
Stii'iigtii. Here, now, taunt on I and 
having spoiled the gods 
( )f honors, crown withal thy mortal men 
Who live a wdiolc day out I Why liow 

could Hiey 
Draw olf from thee one single nf tliv 

griefs? 
Metlunks the Demons gave thee a wronj; 

name, 
Prottietheiis, which means Providence— 

because 
Thou do.st thyself need provideiu e to 

see 
Thy i-oU and ruin from the top of dnom, 
Proiiifthi'us nione. () holy /I'^thcr. 
and swift \Hnged Winds, 
And Rivcr-wclls, and laughter innuiner- 

ous 
Of yon Sca-wavcsl Earth, mother oT 

us all. 
And all-viewing cyclic Siin, I cry on 

you I — 
Hchold me a god, what 1 endure fvum 
gods I 

llehold with throe on throe. 
How, wasted by this wi>e, 
t wrestle down the myriad years . f 
•i'ime I 
neh(dd, how fast around nic. 
The new King of the happy ones sub- 
lime 



ri< oAtE 1 ifE I 's n o i wt). 



lla<; lliiiig llio rliniii lie forged, hns 

•chained aiul IhiuirI tiic I 
Woe, wiic I to day's woe ami tliu i oni- 

iiig morrow's, 
I cover with one groan I And w here is 

found me 
A limit In tlicsc sorrows? 
And yet what word do I say ? I have 

foreknown 
Clearly all thnijis that should lie — iiolli- 

ing done 
Comes sudden to my sonl^aiid 1 must 

hear 
What is orihiiio il «illi |ialiciii;e, hcilii» 

aware 
Necessity doth fmiit the iiiiivrrse 
Willi an invincible gesluro. ^ <'t this 

curse 
Which strikes nic now, 1 find it hard to 

lirave 
III silence or in speech. Because I gave 
Honor to mortals, I liavej'oked my soul 
'Jo this compelling fate I IJccanse I 

'.tole 
'riie secret fount of fire, wliusc bubbles 

went 
Over the fenllc's brim, mid maiiward 

sent 
Art's mighty means and perfect rudi- 
ment, 
That sin 1 expiate in this flgniiy ; 
Hung here in fetters, 'neatii the blaiuh- 

ing sky I 
Ah, ah me t what n sound. 
What a fragrance sweeps up from a 

pillion unseen 
( >f a god, or a mortal, or nature lietwecn. 
Sweeping up to this rock where the earth 

has ncr bound, 
'Jo have sight of my pangs, — tir some 

guerdon obtain^ 
Lo I II god in iho anguish, a god in the 

chain I 
'J'lic god, Zeus liateth sore 
And his gods hate again, 
As many as tread on his glorified floor, 
IJccaiisc I loved mortals loo much ever- 
more ! 
Ahts me 1 what a murmur and inolioii I 

heai*, 
As of birds flying near I 
And ihc air iindcrsings 
'J he light stroke of their wings — 



And all life that approarhcs I wnll for 
ill fear. 

('/ifi> us of Sia iVym/i/is, is( Strophe. 

I''ear nothing I our troop • 

J'loats lovingly up 
Willi a quirk-oarine stroke 
Of wings steered to the rock ; 
J laving softened the soul of our father 

lieTf.w ! 
l'"or the gales of swift-bearing have sent 

nic a .'iouiid, 
And the clank of ilm i,..ii. ihi^ inallmiil 
blow, 
Smote down iIh- pM'li.iiii.l 
( »f my caverns of old. 
And struck the red light in ii lliidi froin 

my brow,- — 
'J ill I sprang up unsniidalled, in liaste to 

behold. 
And rushed forth on my chariot of 
wings iiianibild, 
rtoiiiellii'in. Alas me I — alas me ! 
Ye offspring of 'J'ethys who bore at her 

breast 
Many children ; and eke of ( )ceaiius, — 

he, 
Coiling still around earth with peipehinl 
unrest ; 

I'chold iiie and see 
How transhsed with the fang 
Of a fetter I hang 
Oil the high jutting rocks of this fissure, 

and keep 
An um oveted watch o'er the world and 
the deep. 

Chofllt, ut Atittsti'opllf. 

I behold thee, Prometheus — yet iiow, 
yet now, 

A terrible cloud whose r,ain is tears 

Sweeps over mine eyes that witness Iiow 
J'hy body appears 

Hung awaste on the rocks by infrangi- 
ble chains I 

l'"or new is the liand and llie rmld' r tbnl 
steers 

The ship of Olympus through surge and 
wind — 

And of old tilings passed, no track is 
behind. 

J'loiiielheiis. Under earth, under Hade;, 



PROMETllE US nOUND. 



Where the home of the shade is. 
All into the deep, deep Tartarus, 

I would he had hurled me adown I 
I would he had plunged me, fastened 

thus 
In the knotted chain with the savage 

clarlg. 
All into the dark, where there should be 

none, 
Neither god nor another, to laugh and 

see ! 
]5ut now the winds sing through and 

shake 
The hurtling chains wherein I hang — 
And I, in my naked sorrows, make 
Much mirth for my enemy. 

Chorus, 2d Strophe. 

Nay ! who of the gods hath a heart so 
stern 

As to use thy woe for a mock and 
mirth ? 
Who would not tiu-n more mild to learn 

Thy sorrows ? who of the heaven and 
earth, 

Save Zeus? But he 

Right wrathfully 
Bears on his sceptral soul unbent, 
And rules thereby the heavenly seed ; 
Nor will he pause till he content 
His thirsty heart in a finished deed ; 
Or till Another shall appear. 
To wui by fraud, to seize by fear 
The hard-to-be-captured government. 

ProinetJieiis. Yet even of me he shall 
have need. 
That monarch of the blessed .seed ; 
Of me, of me, who now am cursed 

By his fetters dire, — 
To ring my secret out withal 

And learn by whom hissceptre shall 
Be filched from him — as was, at first. 

His heavenly fire ! 
But he never shall enchant me 

With his honey-lipped persuasion ; 
Never, never shall he daunt me 

With the oath and threat of passion. 
Into speaking as they want me. 
Till he loose this savage chain, 

And accept the expiation 
Of my borrow, in his pain. 



Chorus, 2(i Antistrc/ihe. 

Thou art, sooth, a brave god. 

And, for all tho\i hast borne 
From the the stroke of the rod. 

Nought rela.xest from scorn ! 
But thou speakest imto me 

Too free and unworn — 
And a terror strikes through me 

And festers my soul 

And 1 fear, in the roll 
Of the storm, for thy fate 

In the ship far from .shore — 
Since the son of Satuinius is hard in his 
hate 

And unmoved in his heart evermore. 

Prometheus. I know that Zeus is 

stern ! 
I know he metes his justice by his will ! 
And yet his soul shall learn 
More softness when once broken by this 

ill,— 
And curbing his unconquerable vaunt 
He shall rush on in fear to meet with 

me 
Who rush to meet with him in agony. 
To issues of harmonious covenant. 
Chorus. Remove the veil from all 

things, and relate 
The story to us ! — of what crime accused, 
Zeus smites thee with dishonorable 

pangs. 
Speak ! if to teach us do not grieve thy- 
self. 
Proiiieiheus. The utterance of these 

things IS torture to me. 
But so, too, is their silence ! each way 

lies 
Woe strong as fate ! 

When gods began with wrath. 
And war rose up between their starry 

brows, 
Some choosing to cast Chronos from his 

thione 
That Zeus might king it there ; and 

.some in haste 
With opposite caths that they would 

have no Zeus 
To rule the gods forever, — I, who 

brought 
'I'he counsel I thought meetcst, could not 

move 



rROMETIIEUS DO UNO. 



"3 



The Titans, children of the Heaven and 

Earth, 
V/hat time disdaining in their rngged 

souls 
My subtle machinations, they assumed 
It was an easy thing for force to take 
TiiJ m-Litery of fate. My mother, then, 
Wno is called not only Themis but Earth 

too, • 

(Her single beauty joys in many names,) 
D.d teach me with reiterant prophecy 
What future should be, — and how con- 
quering gods 
Should not prevail by strength and vio- 
lence, 
But by guile only. When I told them 

S3 

They wovdd not deign to contemplate 

the truth 
On all sides round ; whereat I deemed 

it best 
To lead my willing mother upwardly, 
And set my Themis face to face with 

Zeui 
As willing to receive her ! Tartarus, 
With its abysmal cloister of the Dark, 
Because I gave that counsel, covers up 
The antique Chronos and his sidnig 

hosts ; 
And, by that counsel helped, the king of 

gods 
Hath recompensed me with these bitter 

pang3 ! 
For kingship wears a cancer at the 

heart, — 
Distrust in friendship. Do ye also a.sk. 
What crime it is for which he tortures 

me — 
That shall be clear before you. When 

at first 
He filled his father's throne, he instantly 
Mad- varioui gifts of glory to the gods. 
And dealt the Empire out. Alone of 

men. 
Of miserable men he took no count. 
Bat yearned to sweep their track off 

from the world. 
And plant a newer race there ! Not a 

god 
Resisted such desire except myself! 
/ dared it ! / drew mortals back to 

light, 
From meditated ruin deep a.s liell, — 



For which wrong I am bc.nt down in 

these pangs 
Dreadful to suffer, mournful to behold, — 
And I, who pitied man, am thought 

myself 
Unworthy of pity, — while I render out 
Deep rhythms of anguish 'neath the 

harping hand 
That strikes me thus ! — a sight to shame 
your Zeus ! 
Chorus. Hard as thy chains, and 
cold as all these rocks, 
Is he, Prometheus, who withholds his 

heart 
From joining in thy woe. I yearned 

before 
To fly this sight — and, now I gaze on it, 
I sicken inwards. 

Proinct/u'us. To my friends, indeed, 
I must be a sad sight. 

Chorus. And didst thou sin 

No more than so ? 

Prometheus. I did restrain besides 
My mortals from premeditating death. 
Chorus. How didst thou medicine 

the plague-fear of death ? 
Prometheus. I set blind Hopes to 

inhabit in their house. 
Chorus. By that gift, thou didst help 

thy mortals well. 

Prometheus. I gave thgm also, — fire. 

Chorus. And have they now. 

Those creatures of a day, thp red-eyed 

fire? 

Prometheus. They have ! and shall 

learn by it many arts. 
Chorus. And, truly, for such sins 
^eus tortures thee. 
And will remit no anguish ? Is there 

set 
No limit before thee to thine agony ? 
Prometheus. No other ! only what 

seems good to him. 
Chorus. And how will it seem good? 
what hope remains ? 
Seest thou not that thou hast sinned ? 

But that thou hast sinned 
It glads me not to' speak of, -and grieves 

thee — 
Then let it pass from both ! and seek 

thyself 
Some outlet from distress. 

Prometheus, It is in truth 



114 



rROMETUEUS nOUND. 



Am e:> y t'ling to stand aloof from pain 

A:ri lavish exhortation and advice 

O.i one vexed sorely by it. I have 

known 
AU in prevision ! By my choice, my 

choice, 
I freely sinned^I will confess my sin — 
And helping mortals, found mine own 

deipair! 
I did not think indeed that I should pine 
r.jneath such pangs against such skiey 

rocks, 
Doon^d to this drear hill and no neigh- 
boring 
Of any life ! — ^but mourn wot ye for griefs 
1 biar to-day! — hear rather, dropping 

down 
To th* plain, how other woes creep on 

to me. 
And learn the consummation of my 

doom. 
]52seejh you, nymphs, beseech y&u !— 

grieve for me 
Wh juow am grieving ! — for grief walks 

the earth, 
And sits down at the foot of each by 

turns. 
C'lorus. We hear the deep clash of 

thy words 

Prometheus, and obey ! 
A-i J I spring Avith a rapid foot away 
From thi rushing car and the holy air. 

The track of birds— 
And I drop to the rugged ground and 

ther; 
Await the tale of thy despair 

Enter Oceanus. 

Occamts. I reach the bourne of my 
weary road. 
Where I may sec and answer thee, 
Prometheus, in thine agony! 
On the back of the quick-winged bird 
I glod-. 

And I bridled him in 
With the will of a god, 
Ue'iold thy sorrow aches in me. 

Constrained by the force of kin. 
Nay, tho igh thit tic were all undone. 
For the life of none beneath the sun. 
Would I seek a larger benison 

Th.in I seel< for thine ! 
And tho'i sludl learn my words are 
truth.— 



That no fair parlance of the moutli 

(jrows falsely out of mine ! 
Now give me a deed to prove my 

faith, — 
For no faster friend is named in breath 

Than I, Oceanus, am thine. 

Prometheus. Ha ! what has brought 

thee ? Hast thou a^so come 
To look upon my woe 1 How hast thou 

dared 
To leave the depths called after thcc, 

the caves 
Self-hewn and self-roofed with sponta- 
neous rock. 
To visit Earth, the mother of my chain ? 
Ha.st come indeed to view my doom 

and mourn 
That I should sorrow thus? Gaze on, 

and see 
How I, the fait friend of your Zeus,-^ 

how I 
The erector of the empire in hi-, hand, — 
Am bent beneath that hand in tliis 

despair ! 
Oceanus. Prometheus, I beliold, — 

and I would fain 
Exhort thee, though already subtle 

enough, 
To a better wisdom. Titan, know thy- 
self. 
And take new softness to thy manners, 

since 
A new king rules the gods. If words 

like these, 
Harsh words and trenchant, thou wilt 

fling abroad, 
Zeus haply, though he sit so f.ar and 

high. 
May hear thee do it ; and, so, this wrath 

of his 
Wliich now affects thee fiercely, shall 

appear 
A mere child's sport at vengeance! 

Wretched god. 
Rather dismiss the passion which tho'.( 

hast. 
And seek a change from grief. Perli.api 

I seem 
To address thee with old saws and out 

worn sense. — 
Vet such a curse, PrometheiLs, surely 

waits 
On lipi that speak too proudly ! — then, 

meantime, 



PR OME THE US n UND. 



113 



Art none the meeker, nor dost yield 

a jot 
To evil circumstance, preparing still 
To swell the account of grief, with other 

griefs 
Than what are borne I Beseech thee, 

use me then 
For counsel I Do not spurn against the 

priclss,— 
Seeing that who reign*, reigns by cruelty 
Instead of right. And now, 1 go from 

hence, 
And will endeavor if a power of mine 
Can break thy fetters through. I'or 

thee, —be calm. 
And smooth thy words from passion. 

Knowest thou not 
Of perfect knowledge, thou who know- 
est too much, 
That where the tongue wags, ruin never 

lags ? 
Prometheus. T gratulate theo who 

hast shared and dared 
All things with mc, eJvcept tlieir 

penalty 1 
Enough sol le.ave these ihoUgliLs 1 It 

cannot be 
That thou shouldst move lIiM, 11k 

may tioi be moved I 
And thou, beware of sorrow on this 

road . 
Oceiinus. Ay I ever wiser for an- 
other's use 
Than thine! the event, and not the 

prophecy, 
Attests it to me. Vet where now I rush, 
Thy wisdom hath no power to drag me 

back ; 
Because I glory — glory, 4o go hence 
And win for thee deliverance from thy 

pangs, 
As a free gift from Zeus. 

Prometheus. Why there, again, 

I give thee gratulation and applause I 
Thou lackest no good-will. Ijut, as for 

deeds, 
Do nought I 'twere all done vainly ! 

helping nought. 
Whatever thou wouldst do. Rather 

take rest. 
And keep thyself from evil. If I 

grieve, 
I do not therefore wish to multiply 
The griefs of others. Verily, not so ! 



For still my brother'.s doom doth ve,\ my 

soul, — 
My brother Atlas, standing in the west. 
Shouldering the column of the heavtii 

and earth, 
A difficult burden 1 I have also seen. 
And pitied as 1 saw, the earth-born one. 
The inhabitant of old Cilician caves, 
Tlie great war-monster of the hundred 

heads, 
(All taken and bowed beneath the 

violent Hand,) 
Typhon the fierce, who did resist the 

gods, 
And, hissing slaughter from his dreadful 

jaws, 
Flash out ferocious glory from his eyes, 
As if to storm the throne of Zeus I 

Whereat, 
The sleepless arrow of Zeus flcW straight 

at him, — 
The headlong bolt of thunder breathing 

flame. 
And struck him downward from his 

eminence 
Of exultation I Through the very fouI, 
It struck him, and his strengih was 

withered up 
To ashes, thunder-blasted. Now, he lies 
A helpless trunk supinely, at full length 
Beside the strait of ocean, spurred into 
By roots of Etna, — high upon whose 

tops 
Hephsestus sits and strikes the flashing 

ore. 
From thence the rivers of fire shall bur>t 

away 
Hereafter, and devour with savage jaws 
'ihe equal plains of fruitful Sicily I 
Such passion he shall boil back in hot 

darts 
Of an insatiate fury and sough of flame, 
Fallen Typhon ; — howsoever struck and 

charred 
By Zeus's bolted thunder I But for ihce. 
Thou art not so unlearned as to need 
My teaching — let thy knowledge savo 

thyself. 
/ quaff the full cup of a present doom, 
And wait till Zeus hath quenched his 

will in wrath. 
Oceauus. Prometheus, art thou Ignor- 
ant of thls,^- 
That words do medicine un:;er? 



»i6 



r." OME Till'. US D O UND. 



Pi oittdhcus. If the word 

Witli seisonablc softness touch the soul, 
And, where the parts are ulcerous, bear 

them not 
By any rudeness. 

Ocennus. What a noble aim 

To dare as nobly — is there harm in that ? 
Dost thou discern U ? Teach me. 

Prometheus. I discern 

Vain aspiration, — unresultive work. 
Oceanus. Then suffer me to bear the 
brunt of this ! 
Since it is profitable that one who is wise 
Should seem not wise at all. 

Prometlictis. And such would seem 
My very crime. 

Oceanus. In truth thine argument 
Sends me back homu. 

Pr.jiitetkeus. Lest any lament for mc 
Sho.ild cast thee down to hate. 

()LCat!US. The hate of Him, 

Who sits a new king on the absolute 
throne? 
Prometheus. Beware of him, — lest 

thine heart grieve by him. 
Oceanus. Thy doom, Prometheus, 

be my teacher I 
Prometheus. Go I 

Depart^— beware 1— and keep the mind 
thou hast. 
Oceanus. Thy words drive after, as 
I rush before I 
Lo ! my four-footed Bird sweeps smooth 

and wide 
The Hats of air with bal.-inced pinions, 

glad 
To bend his knee at home in the ocean- 
stall. \Exit Oceanus. 
Chorus, 1st Strophe. 
1 moan thy fate, I moan for thee, 

Prometheus 1 From my eyes too ten- 
der, 
Drop after drop inccss.antly. 

The tears of my heart's pity render. 
My cheeks wet from their fountains 
free, — ■ 
Because that Zeus, the stern and cold. 
Whose law is taken from his breast. 
Uplifts his sceptre manifest 
Over the gods of old. • 

i.t/ Antistrophe. 
All the land is moaning 
With a murmured plaint to-day 1 



All the mortal nations. 

Having habitations 
Near the holy Asia, 

Are a dirge entoning 
For thine honor and thy brother's. 
Once majestic beyond others 

In the old belief,^ 
Now are groaning in the groaning 

Of thy deep-voiced grief. 

•id Strophe, 
Mourn the maids inhabitant 

Of the Colchian land, 
Who with white, calm bosoms, stand 

In the battle's roar — 
Mourn the Scythian tribes that haunt 
The verge of earth, Mseotis' shore — 

Q.A. Antistrophe. 
V'ea !' Arabia's battle crown, 
And dwellers in the beetling town 
Mount Caucasus sublimely ncars,-— 
An iron squadron, thundering down 
With the sharp-prov.-cd spears. 

But one other before, have I .seen to 
remain. 
By invincible pain 
Bound and vanquished.^one Titan '.— 

'twas Atlas who bears. 
In a curse from the gods, by tliat strength 
of his own 
Which he evermore wears. 
The weight of the heaven on his shoul- 
der alone. 
While he sighs up the stars ! 
And the tides of the ocean wail bursting 
their bars, — 
Murmurs still the profound,— 
And black Hades roars up through the 

chasm of the ground, — 
And the fountains of pure-running riv- 
ers moan low 
In a pathos of woe. 

Prometheus. Beseech, you, think not 

1 am silent thus 
Through pride or scorn ! 1 only gnaw 

my heart 
With meditation, seeing myself so 

wronged. 
Ii'or so — their honors to these new-made 

gods, 



PK L ^METIIEUS n O USD. 



What other gave but I,— -aad dealt thcra 

out 
With distribution ? Ay— but here I am 

dumb ; 
For here, 1 should repeat your know- 
ledge to yo.i, 
If 1 spake aught. List rather to the 

deeds 
1 did for mortals, — how, being fools be- 
fore, 
1 made them Wise and true in aim of 

soul. 
And let me tell you— not as taunting 

men, 
But teaching you the intention of my 

gifts ; 
How, first beholding, they beheld in 

vain, 
And hearing, heard not, but like shapes 

in dreams. 
Mixed all things wildly down the tedious 

time, 
Nor knew to build a house against the 

sun 
With wicketed sides, nor any woodcraft 

knew. 
But lived, like silly ants, beneath the 

ground 
In hollow caves unsunned. There, came 

to them 
No stedf.ist sign of winter, nor of spring 
Flower-perfumed, nor of summer full of 

fruit. 
But blindly and lawlessly they did all 

things, 
Until I t.aught them how the stars do 

rise 
And set in mystery ; and devised for 

them 
Number, the inducer of philosophies. 
The synthesis of Letters, and, beside. 
The artificer of all things. Memory, 
That sweet Muse-mother. I was first 

to yoke 
The servile beasts in couples, carrying 
An heirdom of man's burdens on their 

backs ! 
I joined the chariots, steeds, that love 

the bit 
'I'hey champ at — the chief pomp of gold- 
en ease. 
And none but \, originated shifjs. 
The seaman's chariots, wandering on the 

brine 



With linen wings I And I — oh, misera- 
ble !— 
Who did devise for mortals all these arts. 
Have no device left now to save mysell 
From the woe I suffer. 

Chorus, Most unseemly wos 

Thou snlTerest and dost stagger from 

the sense. 
Bewildered ! Like a bad leech falling 

sick 
Thou art faint at soul, and canst not find 

the drugs 
Required to save thyself. 

Prometheus. Harken the rest, 

And marvel further — what more arts 

and means 
I did invent, — this, greatest ! — if a man 
Fell sick, there was no cure, nor escu- 
lent 
Nor chrism nor liquid, but for lack of 

drugs 
Men pined and wasted, till I showed 

them all 
Those mi.\tures of emollient remedies 
Whereby they might be rescued from 

disease. 
I fixed the various rules of mantic art. 
Discerned the vision from the common 

dream. 
Instructed them in vocal augurie's 
Hard to interpret, and defined as plain 
Tiie wayside omens, — flights of crook- 
clawed birds,— 
Showed which are, by their nature, for» 

tunate, 
And which not so, and what the food of 

each, 
And what the hates, affections, social 

needs, 
Of all to one another, — taught what sifjn 
Of visceral lightness, coloured to a shade. 
May charm the genial gods, and what 

fair spots 
Commend the lung and liver. Burn- 

ing so 
The limbs encased in fat, and the long 

chine, 
I led my mortals on to an .art abstruse. 
And cleared their eyes to the image i;\ 

the fire. 
Erst filmed in dark. Enough said now 

of this. 
For the other helps of man hid under 

ground, 



PROMETIIFMS BOUND. 



The iron and tlio l)ra<!s silver and gold, 
t!:ui any dare alTirm he found themrjut 
];t:fore me? None, I know! Unlcjs 

he choose 
To lie i:i his vaunt. In one word learn 

t'le whole, — 
That all arts came to mortals from Pro- 
metheus. 
Chorus. Give mortals now no inex- 
pedient help. 
Neglecting thine own sorrow ! I have 

hope still 
To see thee, breaking from the fetter 

he-re. 
Stand up as strong as Zeas. 

Proiuetheits. This ends not thu=;, 

The oracular Fate ordains. I must be 

bowed 
By iiifiiiiie woes and pangs, to escape 

this chain. 
Necessity is stronger than mine art. 
diorits. Who holds the helm of that 

Necessity ? 
Prometheus. The threefold Fates 

and the tmforgetting Furies. 
Chorus. Is Zeus less absolute than 

these are ? 
Prometheus. Yei, 

And therefore cannot fly what is or- 
dained. 
Chorus. What is ordained for Zeus, 

except to be a king forever ? 
Prometheus. 'Tis too early yet 

For thee to learn it : ask no more. 

Chorus. Perhaps 

Thy secret may be something holy ? 

Prometheus. Turn 

To another matter ! this, it is not time 
To speak abroad, but utterly to veil 
In silence. For by that same secret 

kept, 
I 'scape this chain's dishonor and its 
woe. 

Chorus, tst Strophe. 
Never, oh never. 
May Zeus, the all-giver. 
Wrestle down from his throne 
In that might of his own. 
To antagonize mine ! 
Nor let me delay 
As I bond on my way 
T iiward the gods of the shrine. 



Where the altar is full 
Of the blood of the bull. 
Near the tossing brine 
or Ocean my father. 
May no sin be sped in the word th.it ii 
said. 
But my vow to be rather 
Consummated, 
Nor evermore fail, nor evermore i:iue. 

ist Antistrophe. 
'Tis sweet to have 

Life lengthened out 
With hopes proved brave 

By the very doubt. 
Till the spirit enfold 
Those m:inifest joys which were fire- 
told I 
But I thrill to behold 

Thee, victim doomed. 
By the countless cares 
And the drear despaii"s, 
Forever consumed. 

And all because thou, who art fearless 
now 

Of Zeus above, 
Didst overflow for m.ankind below. 

With a free-soiiled, reverent love. 

Ah friend, behold and see I 
Wliat's all the beauty of humanity ? 

C.-in it be fair ? 
What's all the strength ? — is it strong ? 

And what hope can they bear. 
These dying hvers — living one day 
long ? 
Ah seest tho'i not. my friend. 
How feeble and slow. 
And like a dream, doth go 
This poor blind manhood, drifted from 
its end ? 
And how no mortal wrcinglings can 
confuse 
The harmony of Zeas ? 

Prometheus, I have learnt these things 
From the sorrow in thy face ! 
Another song did fold its wuigs 
Unon my lips in other dav--. 
When round the bath and round the 

bed 
The hymeneal chant inste.ul 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. iig 


I King for thee, and smiled, — 


In my prayer 1 


And thou didst lead, with gifts and 


For this wandering everlongcr, cvcr^ 


vows. 


more. 


Hesione, my father's child. 


Hath overworn me, — 


To be thy wedded spouse. 


And I know not on what s!'.ore 




I may rest from my despair. 


lo enters. 


Choms. Hearest thou what the o.-c- 


la. What land is this ? what people 


horned maiden saith ? 


is here ? 


Pfonteiheiis. How could I choose 


And who is he that writhes, I see, 


but hearken what she saith, 


In the rock-hung chain '! 


The frenzied maiden '? — lu.achus'n 


Now what is the crime that hath brought 


child ?— 


thee to pain ? 


Who love-warms Zeus's heart, and now 


And what is the land — make answer 


is lashed 


free— 


By Here's hate, along the unending 


Which I wander through, in my wrong 


ways ? 


and fear 'i 


lo. Who taught thee to articulate 


Ah ! ah ! ah me ! 


that name,— 


The gad-fly stingtth to agony 1 


My father's ? Speak to his child. 


O Earth, keep off that phantasm pale 


By grief and shame defiled 1 


Of earth-born ArgiLs 1 — ah 1 — I quail 


Who art thou, victim, thou — who dost 


When my soul descries 


acclaim 


The herdsman with the myriad eyes 


Mine anguish in true words, on the wide 


Which seem, as he comer^, one crafty 


airV 


eye 1 


And callest too by name, the curse that 


Graves hide Iiir.i not, though he should 


came 


die, 


From Here unaware. 


But he doggeth me in my misery 


To waste and pierce me with the niad- 


From the roots of death, on high — on 


ening goad. 


high— 


Ah — ah— I leap 


And along the sands of the siding deep. 


With the pang of the hungry — I bound 


All famine-worn, he follows me. 


on the road— 


And his waxen reed doth undersound 


I am driven by my doom— 


The waters round, 


I am overcome 


And giveth a measure that giveth sleep. 


By the wrath of an enemy strong and 

deep ! 
Are any of those who have tasted pain, 


Woe, woe, woe I 


Where shall my weary course be 


Alas ! — as wretched as I ? 


done 'i— 


Now tell me plain, doth aught remain 


What wouldst thou with me, Saturn's 


For my soul to endure bercuh the sky ? 


son ? 


Is there any help to be holpen by '? 


And in what have I sinned, that I should 


If knowledge be in thee, let it be said — 


go 


Cry aloud — cry 


Thus yoked to grief by thine hand for 


To the wandering, woeful maid. 


ever ? 


Prometheus. Whatever thou wouldst 


Ah ! ah 1 dost vex me so, 


learn I will declare, — 


That I madden and shiver, 


No riddle upon my lips, but such straigl-.t 


Stung through with dread ? 


words. 


Fkish the fire down, to burn me ! 


As friends should use to each other wIik:i 


Heave the earth up, to cover me ! 


they talk. 


Or plunge me in the deep, with the salt 


Thou seest Prometheus, who gave mor- 


waves over me. 


tals fire. 


Where the sea-beasts may be fed ! 


la. O common Help of all men, 


O king, do not spurn me 


known of all. 



PRoyrETiiEv:^ noumh 



O mkerable PromCthens, " foi" what 

caiL>ie 
l)ost tliou endure thu^? 

Proincthi'iis. 1 have done with wail 
For my own griefs— but lately—^ 

lo. Wih thou not 

Vouchsafe the boon to rrte ? 

Prometheus. Say which thoU wilt. 
For I vouchsafe all. 

lo. Speak then, and reveal 

Who shut tliee in this chasm. 

Prometheus. The will of Zeus, 

The hand of his Hephaestus. 

lo. And what crime 

Dost expiate so ? 

Promet/icus. I have told enough for 
thee, 
111 so much only 

lo. Nay— ^btit show besides 

The limit of my wandering, and the 

time 
Which yet is lacking to fulfil tny gfief. 
Prometheus. Why, not to know 
Were better than to know. 
For such as thou. 

lo Beseech thee, blind me not 

To that which I must suffer. 

Prometheus. If I do 

The reason is not that I grudge the boon. 

Jo. What reason, then, prevents ihy 
speaking out ? 

Pi-ometheus. No grudging ! but a 
fear to break thine heart. 

lo. Less care for me, I pfay thee ! 
Certainty, I count for advantage. 

Prometheus. Thou wilt have it 



so, 
And, therefore, I must speak 
hear— ' 



Now 



Chorus. Not yet ! 

Give half the guerdon my way. Let us 

learn 
First, what the curse Is that befel the 

maid, — • 
Her own voice telling her own Wasting 

woes ! 
The sequence of that anguish shall await 
The teaching of thy lips. 

Prometheus. It doth behove 

That thou, maid lo, shouldst vouchsafe 

to these 
The grace ihey pray ; tlio niorc, because 

they arc called 



Thy father's sisters ; since to open nut 
And mourn out grief where it ispossi'nle 
To draw a tear from the audience, is a 

work 
That pays its own price well. 

Jo, I cannot choose 

But trust you, nymphs, and tell yo>i a'.l 

ye a»k. 
In clear words—though 1 sob amid my 

.speech 
In speaking of the storm«cur.se sent from 

Zeus, 
And of my beauty, from which height 

it took 
Its swoop on me, poof wretch ! left thus 

deformed, 
And monstrous to youi* eyes. For ever- 
more 
Around rtiy virgin cbamber, wandering 

went 
The nightly visions Which entreated me 
With "syllabled smooth sweetness. — 

' Blessed maid. 
Why lengthen out thy maiden liours 

when fate 
Permits the noblest spousal In the world 1 
When Zeus burns with the arrow of thy 

love. 
And fain Would touch thy beauty. — 

Maiden, thou 
De.spise not Zeus I depart to Lerne's 

mead 
That's green around thy father's flocks 

and stalls. 
Until the pa-sslon of the heavenly eye 
Be quenched In sight.' Such dreams 

did all night long 
Constrain mc — me, imhappy !— till I 

dared 
To tell my father how they trod the dark 
Wuh visionary steps ; whereat he sent 
His frequent heralds to the Pythian 

fane. 
And also to Dodona, and inquired 
How best, by act or speech, to ple.ase 

the gods, 
The same returning, brought back ora^ 

cles 
Of doubtful sense, indefinite response. 
Dark to interpret ; but at last thoru 

came 
To Inachus an answer that was clear.— 
Thrown straight :ls any bolt, and spoken 
out. 



PROMETHEUS .BOUND. 



Tliis-^'he should drive mc from my 

home and land, 
And bid mj wander to the extreme 

verge 
Of all the earth-^or, if he willed it not, 
Should have a thunder with a liery eye 
Leap straight from Zeus to bura up all 

his race 
To the last root of it.' By which Lox- 

ian word 
Subdued, he drove me forth, and shut 

me out, 
He loth, me loth, — •but Zeus's violent bit 
Compelled him to the deed'! — when 

instantly 
My body and soul wera changed and 

distraught. 
And, hornad ag ye sse, and spurred 

along 
By the fanged insect, U'ith a maniac 

leap 
I rushed on to Cerchnea's limpid stream 
And Lerne's fountain-water. There, 

the earth born, 
The herdsman Argus, most immitigable 
Of Wrath, did find me out, and track 

me out 
With countless eyes, yet staring at my 

steps ! — 
And though an uncj«pectod sudden 

doom 
Drew him. from life— I, curse-tormented 

still, 
And driven from land to land befora the 

scourge 
The gods hold o'er mc. So, thou hast 

heard the past. 
And if a bitter future thou canst tell. 
Speak on I I charge thee, do not flatter 

me 
Through pity, with false v/ords I for, in 

my mind, 
Deceiving works more shame than tor- 
turing doth. 

Chorus, 

Ah I silence here I 
Nevermore, nevermorei 
Would I languish for 
The stranger's word 
'I'o thrill mine ear !-* 
Nevermore for the wrong and the woe 
and the fear, 



So hard to behold, 

So cruel to bear, 
Piercing my soul with a double-edged 

sword 

Of»a sliding cold I 

Ah fate ! — ah me !— 

I shudder to see 
This wandering maid i:i her agony. 

Projiteiheus. Grief is too quick i.\ 

thee, and fear too full I 

Be patient till thou hast learnt the rest 1 

Chorus, Speak-— teach I 

To those who are sad already, is seems 

sweet, 
By clear foreknowledge to make perfect, 

pain. 
Prometheus. The boon ye asked me 

first was lightly won,— ^ 
For first ye asked the story of this 

maid's grief 
As her own lips might tell it — noW 

remains 
To list what other sorrows she so young 
Must bear from. Here !^-Inachus'» child, 
O thou ! — Drop down tiiy soul my 

weighty words. 
And measure out the landmarks v/.iich 

are set 
To end thy wandering. Toward the 

orient sun 
First turn thy face from mine, and jour» 

ney on 
Along the desert flats, till thou iihalt 

eome 
Where Scythia's shepherd peoples dwcU 

aloft, 
Perched in wheeled wagons under 

woven roofs, 
And twang the rapid arrow past the 

bow- 
Approach them not ; but siding in thy 

course, 
The rugged shore-rocks resonant to the 

sea, 
Depart that country. On the left hand 

dwell 
The iron-workers, called the Chalybes, 
Of whom beware 1 for certes they i.re 

uncouth. 
And nowise bland to strangers. Reach- 
ing so 
The stream Hybristes, (well the scorncr 

called), 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Attempt no passage ; — it is hard to pass, 
Or ere thou come to Caucasus itself, 
The highest of mountains,— where the 

river leaps 
The precipice in liis strengtl* !— thou 

must toil up 
Those moi!mt3in»tops that neighbor with 

the stars, 
AnJ tre-id the south way, and draw 

near, at last, 
The Amazonian host that hateth man, 
Inhabitants of Themiscyra, close 
Upon I'herraodon, where the sea's rough 

jav^ 
!Doth gnash at Salmydessa nnd provide 
A cruel host to seamen, and to ships 
A stepdamd. They, with unreluctant 

hand, 
Shall lead thee on and on, till thou 

arrive 
Just where the ocean gates show narrow- 
est 
On the Cimmerian isthmus. Leaving 

which, 
B,ihoves thee swim with fortitude of 

soul 
The strait Mseotis. Ay ! and evermore 
That traverse shall be famous on men's 

lips, 
That strait, called Bosphorus, the horned 

one's road. 
So named because of thee, who so wilt 

pass 
Prom Europe's plain to Asia's continent. 
How think ye, nymphs? the king of 

god ; app -ars 
Impartial in f jrocious deeds ? Behold 
The god desirous of this mortal's love 
Hath cursed her with these wandernigs. 

Ah, fair child, 
Tho 1 hast met a bitter groom for bridal 

troth 1 
For all thou yet hast heard, can only 

prove 
The incompleted prelude of thy doom, 
lo. Ah, ah I 
Prniitt'tUeits. Is't thy turn, now, to j 

shriek and moan 'i 
How wilt thou when thou hast heark- 
ened what remains 'I 
Cliorus. Besides the ^rief thou hast 

told, can aught remain ? 
Pritincthi'us:. A sea— of foredoomed 

evil worked to storm. 



/j. What boots my life, tlien ? why 
not cast myself 
Down headlong from this mlscrabla 

rock, 
That, dashed against iho fl.'its, I may 

redeem 
My soul from sorrow ? Uetter once to 

die, 
Than day by d.ay to suffer. 

Pretitttkeiis. Verily, 

It would be hard fof thee to bear my 

woe. 
For whom it is appointed not to die. 
Death frees from woe : but 1 before me 

see 
In all my far prevision, not a bound 
lo all I suffer, ere that Zeus shall fall 
From being a king. 

lo. And can it ever be 

That Zeus shall fall from empire ? 

Prometheus. Thou., methinks, 

Wouldst take some joy to see it. 

lo. Could I choose ; 

/, who endure such pangs, now, by that 
god ? 
Premeihcus., Learn from nic, there- 
fore, that the event shall be. 
la. By whom shall his imperial .scep- 
tred hand 
Be emptied so ? 
Prpmethi-us, Himself shall spoil 

himself. 
Through his idiotic counsels. 

lo. How ? declare ; 

Unless the word bring evil. 

Prometheus. He shall wed — 

And in the marriage-bond be joined to 
grief. 
lo. A heavenly bride — or human ? 
Speak it out. 
If it be utterable. 
Prometheus. Why should I say 

which ? 
It ought not to be uttered, verily. 

lo. Then 

It is his wife shall tear him from his 
throne ? 
Promctheitr, It is his wife shall bear 
a son to him. 
More mighty than the father. 

to. From this doom 

Hath he no refuge ? 

Prometheus. None — or ere that I, 
Loosed from these fetters— 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



I2J 



To Yea — but who shall loose 

While Zeus is adverse ? 

Protnetkcus. One who is born of 
thee,— 
It i; ordained so. 

J J. What is this thou say est — 

A son of mine shall liberate thee from 
woe ? 
Prometheus. After ten generations, 
count three more. 
And find him in the third. 

lo. The oracle 

Remains obscure. 

Prometheus. And search it not to 
learn 
Thine own griefs from it. 

lo. Point me not to a good, 

To leave me straight bereaved, 

Prometheus. I am prepared 

To grant thee one of two things. ■ 

lo. IHit which two ? 

Set them before me — grant me power to 

choose. 
Prometheus. I grant it — choose now 1 

shall name aloud 
What griefs remain lo wound thee, or 

what hand 
Shall save me out of mine. 

Chorus. Vouchsafe, O god. 

The one grace of the twain to her who 

prays. 
The ne.xt to mc — and turn back neither 

prayer 
Disr.onored by denial. To herself 
Recount the future wandering of her 

feet — 
Then point mc to the looser of thy 

chain — 
Because I yearn to know it. 

Prometheus. Since ye will. 

Of absolute will, this knowledge, I will 

set 
No contrary against it, nor keep back 
A word of all ye ask for. lo, first 
To thee I must relate thy wandering 

course 
Far winding ; as I tell it, write it down 
In thy soul's book of memories. When 

thou hast past 
The refluent bound that parts two con- 
tinents. 
Track on the footsteps of the orient sun 
In his oivn fire — across the roar of seas, 



Fly till thou l-.ast reached the Gorgonean 
flats 

Beside Cisthene — there the Phorcides, 

Three ancient maidens, live, with shape 
of swan. 

One tooth between them, and one com- 
mon eye. 

On whom the sun doth never look at all 

With all his rays, nor evermore the 
moon. 

When she looks through the night. 
Anear to whom 

Are the Gorgon sisters three, enclothed 
with wings. 

With twisted snakes for ringlets, man- 
abhorred. 

There is no mortal gazes in their face. 

And gazing can breathe on. I speak of 
such 

To guard thee from their horror. Ay ! 
and list 

Another tale of a dreadful sight ! be- 
ware 

The Griffins, those unbarking dogs of 
Zeus, 

Those sharp-mouthed dogs ! — and the 
Arimaspian host 

Of one-eyed horsemen, habiting beside 

The river of Pluto that runs bright with 

gold- 
Approach them not, beseech thee. Pre- 
sently 
Thou'lt come to a distant land, a dusky 

tribe 
Of dwellers at the fountain of the Sun, 
Whence flows the river .^Ethiops !— 

wind along 
Its banks and turn off at the cataracts, 
Just as the Nile pours from the Bybline 

lulls. 
His holy and sweet wave ! his course 

shall guide 
Thine own to that triangular Nile- 
ground 
Where, lo, is ordained for thee and thine 
A lengthened exile. Have I said, in 

this. 
Aught darkly or incompletely? — now 

repeat 
The question, make the knowledge 

fuller ! Lo. 
I have more leisure than I covet, here. 
Chorus. If thou canst tell us aught 
tint's left untold 



124 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Or loosely told of her most dreary fliglit. 
Declare it straight ! but if thou hast 

uttered all, 
Orant us that latter grace for which we 

prayed, 
Remembering how we prayed it. 

Prometheus. She has heard 

The uttermost of her wandering. There 

it ends. 
But that she may be certain not to have 

heard 
All vainly, I will speak what she en- 
dured 
Ere coming hither, and invoke the past 
To prove my prescience true. And so 

to leave 
A multitude of words, and pass at once 
'I'o the subject of thy course ! — When 

thou hadst gone 
To those Molossian plains which sweep 

ajwund 
Dodona shouldering Heaven, whereby 

the fane 
Of Zeus Thesprotian keepeth oracle. 
And wonder, past belief, where oaks do 

wave 
Articulate adjurations — (ay, the same 
Ssluted thee in no perplexed phrase. 
But clear with glory, noble wife of Zeus 
That shouldst be, there, some sweetness 

took thy sense !) 
Thou didst rush further onward, — stung 

along 
The ocean-shore, — toward Rhea's 

mighty bay, 
And, tost back from it, was tost to it 

again 
In stormy evolution ! — and, know well. 
In coming time that hollow of the sea 
Shall bear the name Ionian, and present 
A monument of lo's passage through. 
Unto all mortals. Be these words the 

signs 
Of my soul's power to look beyond the 

veil 
Of visible things. The rest to you and 

her, 
I will declare in common audience, 

nymphs. 
Returning thither, whore my speech 

brake off. 
There is a town Canobus, built upon 
The earth's fair margin, at the mouth of 

Nile. 



And on the mouna w;ushed up by it!-» 

lo, there 
Shall Zeus give back to thee thy perfect 

mind. 
And only by the pressure and the touch 
Of a hand not terrible ; and thou to 

Zeus 
Shalt bear a dusky son, who shall be 

called 
Thence, Epaphus, Touched I That son 

shall pluck the fruit 
Of all that land wide-watered by the 

flow 
Of Nile ; but after him, when counting 

out 
As far as the fifth full generation, then 
Full fifty maidens, a fair woman-race. 
Shall back to Argos turn reluctantly. 
To fly the proffered nuptials of their 

kin. 
Their father's brothers. These being 

passion-struck. 
Like falcons bearing hard on flying 

doves. 
Shall follow, hunting at a quarry of love 
i'hey should not hunt — till envious 

Heaven maintain 
A curse betwixt that beauty and their 

desire, 
And Greece receive them, to be over- 
come 
In murtherous woman-war. by fierce red 

hands 
Kept savage by the night. For every 

wife 
Shall flay a husband, dyeing deep in 

blood 
The sword of a double edge I (,1 wish 

indeed 
As fair a marriage-joy to all my foes !) 
One bride alone shall fail to smite to 

death 
The head upon her pillow touched with 

love. 
Made impotent of purpose, and im- 
pelled 
To choose the lesser evil — shame on her 

cheeks, 
The blood-guilt on ner Hands. Which 

bride shall bear 
A royal race in Argos — tedious speech 
Were needed to relate particulars 
Of these things — 'tis enough (hat from 

her seed. 



FROM ETHEL'S BOUND. 



Shall spring the strong He — famous with 

the bow, 
Whose arm shall break my fetters off! 

Behold, 
My mother Themis, that old Titaness, 
Delivered to me such an oracle ; 
But how and when, 1 should be long to 

speak, 
And thou, in hearing, wouldst not gain 

at all. 

lo. Eleleu, eleleu ! 

How the spasm and the pain 
And the fire on the brain 
Strike, burning me through ! 
How the sting of the curse, all aflame 
as it flew. 
Pricks me onward again ! 
How my heart in its terror, is spurning 

my breast. 
And my eyes, like the wheels of a cha- 
riot, roll round, — 
I am whirled from my course, to the 

east, to the west. 
In tht whirlwind of frenzy all madly 

inwound — ■ 
And my mouth is unbridled for anguish 

and hate. 
And my words beat in vain, in wild 
storms of unrest. 
On the sea of my desolate fate. 

Chorus. — Strophe. 
Oh ( wise was he, oh, wise was he, 
V-''h»y first within his spirit knew 
And Afith his tongue declared it true, 
I'hat love comes best that comes unto 

The equal oi" degree ! 
And that the poor and that the low 
Should seek no love from those above 
Whose souls are fluttered with the flow 
Of ail's abont their golden height. 
Or proud because they see arow 
Ancestral crowns of light ! 

Antistrophe. 
Oh ! never, never, may ye. Fates, 

Behold me with your awful eyes 

Lift mine too fondly up the skies 
Where Zeus upon the purple waits ! — 

Nor let me step too near — too near — 
I'o any suitor, bright from heaven— 

Because I see — because I fear 
I'his loveless maiden vexed and laden 



By this fell curse of Here, — driven 
On wanderings dread and drear ! 

Epodc. 
Nay, grant an equal troth instead 

Of nuptial troth to bmd me by ! — 
It will not hurt — I shall not dread 

To meet it in reply. 
But let not love from those above 
Revert and fi.x me, as I said. 

With that inevitable Eye ! 
I have no sword to fight that fight — 
I have no strength to tread that path — 
I know not if my nature hath 
The power to bear, — I cannot see. 
Whither, from Zeus's infinite, 
I have the power to flee. 

Prometheus. \'et Zeus, albeit most 
absolute of will 

Shall turn to meekness,— such a mar- 
riage-rite 

He holds in preparation, which anon 

Shall thrust him headlong from his 
gerent seat 

Adown the abysmal void, and so the 
curse 

His father Chronos muttered in his fall. 

As he fell from his ancient throne and 
cursed, 

Shall be accomplished wholly— no es- 
cape 

From all that ruin shall the filial Zeus 

Find granted to him from any of his 
gods. 

Unless I teach him. I, the refuge, know. 

And I, the means — Now, therefore, let 
him sit 

And brave the imminent doom, and fi.'c 
his faith 

On his supernal noises, hurtling on 

With restless hand, the bolt that breathes 
out fire — 

For these things shall not help him — 
none of them— 

Nor hinder his perdition when he falls 

To shame, and lower than patience. — 
Such a foe 

He doth himself prepare against him- 
self, 

A wonder of unconquerable Hate, 

An organiser of sublimer fire 

Than glares in lightnings, and of grander 
soiuid ' 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Than rvught tlic thunder rolls, — •out- 
thundering it. 
Witli power to shatter in Poseidon's fi>t 
The trident spear, which, while it plagues 

the sea, 
Doth shake the shores around it. Ay, 

and Zeus, 
Precipitated thus, shall learn at length 
The difference betwixt rule and servi- 
tude. 
Cliortis. Thou makest threats for 

Zeus of thy desires. 
Proinethciis. I tell you all these 
things shall be fulfilled. 
Even so as I desire them, 

Chorus, Must we then 

Look out for one shall come to master 
Zeus ? 
Proinetlieiis. These chains weigh 

lighter than his sorrows shall. 
Chorus. How art thou not afraid to 

utter such words ? 
Prometheus. What should / fi;ar, 

who cannot die ? 
Chorus. But he 

Can visit thee with dreader woe than 
death's. 
Prometheus. Why let him do it ! — I 
am here, prepared 
For all things and their pangs. 

Chorus. 1 he wise are they 

Who reverence Adrasteia. 

Prometheus. Reverence thou. 

Adore thou, flatter thou, whomever 

reigns, 
Whenever reigning — but for mc, your 

Zeus 
Is less than nothing ! Let him act and 

reign 
His brief hour out according to his 

will- 
He will not, therefore, rule the gods too 

long ! 
But lo ! I see that courier-god of Zeus, 
That new-made menial of the new- 
crowned king — 
He doubtless comes to announce to us 
.something new. 

Hei!M[!s enters. 
Hermes. I speak to thee, the sophist, 
the talker down 



Of scorn by scorn, — the sinner against 
gods. 

The reverencer of men, — the thief of 
fire,— 

I speak to and adjure thee ! Zeus re- 
quires 

Thy declaration of what marriage-rite 

Thus moves thy vaunt and shall hereaf- 
ter cause 

His fall from empire. Do not wrap thy 
speech 

In riddles, but speak clearly I Never 
cast 

Ambiguous paths, Prometheus, for my 
feet— 

Since Zeus, thou may'st perceive, is 
scarcely won 

To mercy by such means. 

Prometheu.':. A speech well-mouthed 

In the utterance, and full minded in the 
sense. 

As doth befit a servant of the gods ! 

New gods, ye newly reign, and think 
forsooth 

Ye dwell in towers too high for any 
dart 

To carry a wound there ! Have I not 
stood by 

While two kings fell from thence ? and 
.shall I not 

Behold the third, the same who rules 
you now. 

Fall, shamed to sudden ruin ? — Do I 
seem 

To tremble and quail before your mod- 
ern gods ? 

Far be it from me ! — For thyself depart. 

Re-tread thy steps in haste ! To all 
thou hast asked, 

I answer nothing. 

Hermes. Such a wind of pride 

Impelled thee of yore full sail upon 
these rocks. 
Prometheus. I would not barter — 
learn thou soothly that ! — 

My suffering for thy service ! I main- 
tain 

It is a nobler thing to serve these rocks 

Than live a faithful slave lo father 
Zeus — 

Thus upon scorners I retort their scorn. 
Hermes. It seems that thou dost 
glory in thy despair. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



127 



Profnetheus. I, glory ? would my foes 

did glory so, 
And 1 stood by to see them ! — naming 

whom 
Thou art not unremembcred. 

Hermes. Dost thou charge 

Me also with the blame of thy mis- 
chance ? 
Prometheus. I tell thee I loathe the 
unix'ersal gods, 
Who for the good I gave them renderea 

back 
The ill of their injustice 

Hermes. Thou art mad — 

I hear thee raving. Titan, at the fever- 
height. 
Promctlieus. If it be madness to 
abhor my foes. 
May 1 be mad ! 

Hermes. If thou wert prosperous, 

Thou wouldst be unendurable. 

Prometheus. Alas ! 

Hermes. Zeus knows not that word. 
Prometheus. But maturmg time 

Doth teach all things. 

Hermes. Howbeit, thou hast not 
learnt 
The wisdom yet, thou needest. 

Prometheus. If I had, 

I should not talk thus with a slave like 
thee. 
Hervies. No answer thou vouchsaf- 
est, 1 believe, 
To the great Sire's requirement. 

Prometheus. Verily 

I owe him grateful service, — and should 
pay it. 
Hermes. Why dost thou mock me. 
Titan, as I stood 
A child before thy face. 

Prometheus. tio child, forsooth, 

I!ut yet more foolish than a foolish 

c'hdd. 
If thou e.xpect that I should answer 

aught 
Thy Zeus can ask. No torture from his 

hand. 
Nor any machination in the world 
Li'.iall force my utterance, crc lie loose, 

himself, 
i liese cankerous fetters from me ! For 

the rest, 
Lot him now hurl his blanching light- 
nings down. 



And with his white-winged snows, and 

mutterings deep 
Of subterranean thunders, mix all 

things ; 
Confound them in disorder! None of 

this 
Shall bend my sturdy will and make me 

.speak 
The name of his dethroner who shall 

come. 
Hermes. Can this avail thee ? Look 

to it ! 
Prometheus. Long ago 

It was looked forward to, — precounselled 

of. 
Hermes. Vain god, take righteous 

courage ! — dare for once 
To apprehend and front thine agonies 
With a just prudence! 

Promctlieus. Vainly do.st thou chafe 
My soul with exhortation, as yonder sea 
Goes beating on the rock. Oh ! thmk 

no more 
That I, fear -struck by Zeus to a woman's 

mind, 
Will supplicate him, loathed as he is. 
With feminine upliftings of my hands. 
To break these chains ! Fair from me be 

the thought ! 
Hermes. I have indeed, methinks, 

said much in vain, — 
For still thy heart, beneath my showers 

of prayers. 
Lies dry and hard ! — nay, leaps like a 

young horse 
Who bites against the new bit in his 

teeth. 
And tugs and struggles against the new- 
tried rein, — 
Still fiercest in the feeblest thing of all. 
Which sophism is, — since absolute will 

disjoined 
From perfect mind is worse than weak. 

Behold, 
Unless my words persuade thee, what a 

blast 
And whirlwind of inevitable woe 
Must sweep persuasion through thee! 

For at first 
The Father will split up this jut of riick 
With the great thunder and the bolted 

Hame, 
And hide thy body where a hinge oS 

stone 



1 

128 PROMETHEUS BOUND. 


Shall catch it like an aim ! — and when 


And the brine of the ocean in rapid 


thou hast passed 


emotion. 


A long black time within, thou shalt 


Ce it driven in the face 


come out 


Of the stars up in heaven, as they walk 


To front the sun, while Zeus's winged 


to and fro ! 


hound, 


Let him hurl me anon, into Tartarus — 


The strong carniverous eagle, shall 


on — 


\\heel down 


To the blackest degree. 


To meet thee, — self-called to a daily 


With Necessity's vortices strangling me 


feast, 


down ! 


And set his fierce beak in thee, and tear 


But he cannot join death to a fate meant 


off 


for inc ! 


The long rags of thy flesh, and batten 


Hermes. Why the words that he 


deep 


speaks and the thoughts that he 


Upon thy dusky liver ! Do not look 


thinks. 


For any end moreover to this curse. 


Are maniacal^add, 


Or ere some god appear, to accept thy 


If the Fate who hath bound him, should 


pangs 


loose not the links. 


On his own head vicarious, and descend 


He were utterly mad. 


With unrehictant step the darks of hell 


Then depart ye who groan with him. 


And gloomy abysses around Tartarus ! 


Leaving to moan with him — 


Then ponder this! — this threat is not a 


Go in haste ! lest the roar of the thun- 


growth 


der anearing 


Of vain invention : it is spoken and 


Should blast you to idiocy, living and 


meant ! 


hearing. 


King Zeus's mouth is impotent to lie, 


Chorus. Change thy speech for an- 


Consummating the utterance by tlie 


other, thy thought for a new. 


act — 


If to move me and leach mc, indeed 


So, look to it, thou ! — take heed ! — and 


be thy care ! 


nevermore 


For thy words swerve so far from the 


Forget good counsel, to indulge self-will ! 


loyal and true. 


Chorus. Our Hermes suits his rea- 


That the thunder of Zeus seems more 


sons to the times — 


easy to bear. 


At least I think so ! — since he bids thee 


How ! couldst teach me to venture such 


drop 


vileness? 


Self-will for prudent counsel. Yield to 


Behold ! 


him ! 


1 choose, with this victim, this angufsh 


When the wise err, their wisdom makes 


foretold ! 


their shame. 


I recoil from the traitor in hate and dis- 


Prometheus. Unto me the foreknow- 


dain,— 


er, this mandate of power 


And I know that the curse of the trea- 


He cries, to reveal it. 


son is worse 


What's strange in my fate, if I sufl^'er 


Than the pang of the chain. 


from hate 


Hermes. Then remember, O nymphs. 


At the hour that I feel it"? 


what I tell you before, 


Let the locks of the lightning, all brist- 


Nor, when pierced by the arrows that 


ling and whitening. 


Ate will throw you. 


Flash, coiling me round ! 


Cast blame on your fate and declare 


While the ether goes surging 'neath 


evermore 


thunder and scourging 


That Zeus thrust you on anguish he 


Of wild winds unbound ! 


did not foreshow you. 


Let the blast of the firmament whirl 


Nay, verily, nay ! for ye perish anon 


from its place 


For your deed — by your choice ! — by 


The earth rooted below. 


no blindness of doubt. 



A LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 



129 



No abruptness of doom l^»biit by mad^ 
lies; alone, 
In the great net of Ate, whence none 
cometli Oiit, 

Ye are wound and undone 1 
PronUtheiis, Ay ! in act, now-^irt 
word, now, no more 1 

E-irtli is rocking^ in space I 
And the thunders crash up with a roar 
upon roar-* 
And the eddying lightnings flash fires 
in my face, 
And the whirlwinds are whirling the 
dust round and round— 
And the blasts of the winds universal, 
leap free 
And blow each upon each, with a pas- 
sion of sound, 
And aether gties mingling in storm 
with the sea ! 
Sach a Curse on my head, in a manifest 
dread, 
f rom the hand of your 2eus has been 
hurtled along 1 
O my mother's fair glory 1 0, ^ther, 

enringlng, 
All eyes, with the sweet common light 
of thy bringing. 
Dost thou see how I suffer this 
wrong ? 



A LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 

FROM DION. 



I MoitRN" for Adonis— 'Adonis is dead ! 
Fair Adonis is dead, and the Loves 
are lamenting. 
Sleep, Cypris, no more on thy purple- 
strewed bed 1 
Arise, wretch stoled in black,— -beat 
thy breast unrelenting. 
And shriek to the worlds, ' Fair Adonis 
is dead.' 



1 mourn for Adonis — the Loves are la- 
menting. 
He lies on the hills, in his beauty and 



death,- 



The white tusk of a boar has tr.ansfi.ved 
his white thigh ; 
Cytheria grows mad at his thin gasp- 
ing breath, 
While the black blood drips down on the 
pala ivory, 
And his eye-balls lie quenched with 
the weight of his brows. 
The rose fades from his lips, and upon 
them just parted 
The kiss dies the goddess consents not 
to lose, 
Though the kiss of the Dead cannot 
make her glad-hearted— 
He knows not who kisses him dead in 
the dews. 



I mourn for Adonis— the Loves are la- 
menting 
Deep, deep in the thigh, is Adonis's 
wound ; 
But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom pre- 
senting— 
The youth lieth dead while his dogs 
howl around, 
And the nymphs Weep aloud from the 
mists of the hill, 
And the poor Aphrodite, with tresses 
unbound, 
All dishevelled, uns.andalled, shrieks 
mournful and shrill 
Through the dusk of the groves. The 
thorn-, tearing her feet, 
Gather up the red flower of her blood 
which is holy, 
Each footstep she takes ; and the val- 
leys repeat 
The sharp cry she utters, and draw it 
out slowly. 
She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian ; 
on him 
Her own youth ; while the dark blood 
spreads over his body — 
The chest taking hue from the gash 
in the limb. 
And the bosom once ivory, turning to 
ruddy. 



Ah, .ah, Cytheria 1 the Loves are la- 
mcntiii.g : 
She lost her fair .spouse, and so lost 
her fair smile— 



A LAM£XT POR ADONIS. 



When he lived Bhe was fair by the whole 
world's consenting. 
Whose fairness is dead with him 1 woe 
worth the while ! 
All the mountains above and the oak- 
lands below 
Murmur, ah, ah Adonis ! the streams 
overflow 
Aphrodite's deep wail,— river-fountains 
in pity 
Weep soft in the hills ; and the flow- 
ers as they blow, 
Redden outward with sorrow ; \yhile all 
hear her go 
With the song of her sadness, through 
mountain and city. 



Ah, ah, Cytheria 1 Adonis is dead I 
Fair Adonis is dead — Echo answers, 
Adonis 1 
Who weeps not for Cypris, when bow- 
ing her head, 
She stares at the wound where it 
gapes and astonies ? 
. — When, ah. ah ! — she saw how the 
blood r.an away 
And empurpled the thigh ; and, with 
wild hands flung out, 
Said with sobs, ' Stay, Adonis 1 unh.appy 
one, stay, 
Let me feel thee once more — let me 
ring thee about 
With the clasp of my arms, and press 
kiss into kiss I 
Wait a little, Adonis, and kiss mc 
again, 
For the last time, beloved ; and but so 
much of this 
That the kiss may learn life from the 
warmth of the strain I 
—Till thy breath shall e.xude from thy 
soul to my mouth ; 
To my heart ; and, the love-charm I 
once more receiving. 
May drink thy love in it, and keep of a 
truth 
That one kiss in the place of Adonis 
the living. 
Thou fliest me, mournful one, flicst mc 
far. 
My Adonis : and seekest the Acheron 
portal, — 



To Hell's cruel King goest down with a 
scar, 
While I weep and live on like a 
wretched immortal. 
And follow no step ; — O Persephone, 
take him. 
My husband ! — thou'rt better and 
brighter than I 
So all beauty flows down to thee I / 
cannot make him 
Look up at my grief ; there's despair 
in my cry. 
Since I wad for Adonis, who died to me 
. . died to me . . 
— Then, I fear tkee.'-~Art thou dead, 
my Adored? 
Passion ends like a dream in the sleep 
that's denied to me. — 
Cypris is widowed ; the Loves seek 
their lord 
All the house through in vain ! Charm 
of cestus has ceased 
With thy clasp !— O too bold in the 
hunt, past preventing ; 
Ay, mad : thou so fair ... to have strife 
with a beast !'— 
Thus the Goddess wailed on — and the 
loves are lamenting. 



Ah, ah, Cytherea ! Adonis is dead. 
She wept tear after tear, with the blood 

which was shed ; 
And both tjirned into flowers for the 

earth's garden-close ; 
Her tears, to the vkfind-flower, — his blood 

to the rose. 



I nmurn for Adonis — Adonis is dead. 
Weep no more in the woods, Cytherea, 
thy lover ! 
So, well ; make a pl.ace for his corse in 
thy bed. 
With the purples thou sleepest in, un- 
der and over. 
He's fair though a corse — .a fair corse . . 
like .a sleeper — 
Lay hun soft in the silks he had plea- 
sure to fold. 
When, beside thee at night, holy dreams 
deep and deeper 



BER THA IN THE LANE. 



Enclosed his young life on the coucli 
made of gold ! 
Love hiiu still, poor Adonis ! cast on 
him together 
The crowns and the flowers ! since he 
died from the place, 
Why let all die with him — let the blos- 
soms go wither ; 
Rain myrtles and olive-buds down on 
his face : 
Rain the myrrh down, let all that is 
best fall apining, 
For the myrrh of his life from thy 
keeping is swept ! — 
— Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples 
reclining, — 
The Loves raised their voices around- 
him and wept. 
They have shorn their bright curls off 

to cast on Adonis : 
One treads on his bow, — on his arrows, 

another, — 
One breaks up a well-feathered quiver ; 
and one is 
Bent low at a sandal, untying the 

strings ; 
And one carries the vases of gold from 
the springs. 
While one washes the wound ; and be- 
huid them a brother 
Fans down on the body sweet air 
with his wings. 



Cytherea herself, now, the Loves are 
lamenting. 
Each torch at the door Hymeribaus 
blew out ; 
And the marriage-wreath dropping its 
leaves as repenting. 
No more ' Hymen, Hymen,' is chant- 
ed about, 
But the ai ai instead — ' ai alas ' is begun 
For Adonis, and then follows ' ai 
Hymena^us ! ' 
The Graces are weeping for Cinyris' son 
Sobbing low, each to each, 'His fair 
eyes cannot see us ! ' — 
Their wail strikes more shrill than the 

sadder Dione's ; 
The Frttes mourn aloud for Adonis, 
A lion is, 



Deep chanting ! he hear.s not a word 
that they say : 
He ivoiild hear, but Persephone has 
him in keeping. 
— Cease moan, Cytherea — leave pomps 
for to-day. 
And weep new when a new yeai 
refits thee for weeping. 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 

Put the broidery-frame away. 
For my sewing is all done ! 

The last thread is used to-day. 
And I need net join it on, 
Thcugh the clock stands at the noon 
I am weary ! 1 have sewn, 
Sweet, for thee, a wedduig-gown. 

Sister, help me to the bed. 

And stand near me, Dearest-sweet! 

i)o not shrink nor be afraid. 
Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
No one standeth in the street ? — 
By God's love I go to meet. 
Love I thee with love complete. 

Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
These two hands, that 1 may hold 

'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin. 
Stroking back the curls of gold. 
'Tis a fair, fair face, in ,'ooih — 
Larger eyes and redder mouth 
Than mine were in my first youth \ 

'I'hou art younger by seven j-ears — 
Ah ! — so bashful at my gaze. 

That the lashes, hung with tears. 
Grow too heavy to upraise ? 
I would wound thee by no touch 
Which thy shyness feels as such — 
Dost thou mind me. Dear, so much ? 

Have I not been nigh a mother 
To thy sweetness — tell me, Dear? 

Have we not loved one another 
Tenderly, from year to year. 
Since our dying mother mild 
Said with accents imdefiled, 
' Child, be mother to this child ! ' 



J32 



BiERTHA IN THE LANE. 



Mother, mother, up in heaven. 
Stand lip on the jasper sea, 

And he witness I have given 
All the gifts required of me, — 
Hope that blessed me, bliss that 

crowned. 
Love, that left me with a wound. 
Life itself, that tiirneth roimd ! 

Mother, mother, thou art kind. 
Thou art standing in the room. 

In a molten glory shrined. 
That rays off into the gloom ! 
But thy ^mile is bright and bleak 
Like cold waves — I cannot speak ; 
I sob in it, and grow weak. 

Ghostly mother, keep aloof 

One hour longer from my soul — 

For I still am thinking of 

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole ; 
On my finger is a ring 
Which I still see glittering. 
When the night hides everything. 

Little sister, thou art pale ! 

Ah, I have a wandering brain — 
But I lose that fever-bale. 

And my thoughts grow calm again. 

Lean down closer — closer still ! 

1 have words thine ear to fill, — 

And would kiss thee at my will. 

Dear, I heard thee in the spring. 

Thee and Robert — through the trees — • 

When we all went gathering 

Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 
Do not start so ! think instead 
How the sunshine overhead 
Seemed to trickle through the shade. 

What a day it was, that day ! 

Hills and vales did openly 
Seem to heave and throb away 

At the sight of the great sky. 

And the Silence, as it stood 

In the (jlory's golden flood. 

Audibly did bud — and bud. 

Through the winding hedgerows green, 
How we wandered, I and you, — 

With the bowery tops shut in. 

And the g.Ttes that showed the view — 
How wc talked there ! thrushes soft 



Sang our pauses out — or oft 
Bleatings took them, from the croft 

Till the plea.sure grown too strong 
Left me muter evermore ; 

And, the winding road being long, 
I walked out of sight, before. 
And so, wrapt in musings fond. 
Issued (past the wayside pond) 
On the meadow -lands beyond. 

I sate down beneath the beech 
Which leans over to the lane. 

And the far sound of your speech 
Did not promise any pain ; 
And I blessed you full and free. 
With a smile stooped tenderly 
O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 

But the sound grew into word 

As the speakers drew more near — 

Sweet, forgive nie that I heard 
What you wished me not to hear. 
Do not weep so — do not shake — 
Oh, — I heard thee. Bertha, make 
Good true answers for my sake. 

Yes, and he too ! let him stand 

In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. 

Could he help it, if my hand 

He had claimed with ha.sty claim ? 
That was wrong perhaps — but then 
Such things be — and will, again ! 
Women cannot judge for men. 

Had he seen thee when he swore 
He would love but me alone. 

Thou wert absent, — sent before 
To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
When he saw thee who art best 
Past compare, and loveliest. 
He but judged thee as the rest. 

Could wc blame him with grave words. 
Thou and I, Dear, if wc might? 

Thy brown eyes have looks like birds. 
Flying straightway to the light : 
Mine arc older. — Hush ! — look out — 
TTp the street ! Is rone without'? 
How the poplar swings about ! 

And that hour — beneath the beech. 

When T listened in a dream. 
And he said, in his deep speech. 



BER THA IN THE LANE. 



That he owed me all csleeiit, — 
Elach word swam in on my brain 
With a dim, dilating pain. 
Till It burst with that last strain — 

I fell flooded with a Dark, 
In the silence of a swoon — • 

When I rose, still cold and stark. 
There was night, — I saw the moon : 
And the stars, each m its place. 
And tlie iS'Iay-blooms on the grass, 
Seemed to wonder what I was. 

And I walked as if apart 

From myself when I could stand — 

And I pitied my own heart. 
As if I held it in my hand, 
Somewhat coldly; — with a ^ense 
Of fulfilled benevolence. 
And a ' Poor thing ' negligence. 

And I answered coldly too. 

When you met me at the door ; 

And I only keat-d the dew 

Dripping from me to the floor : 
And the flowers 1 bade you see. 
Were too withered for the bee, — 
As my life, henceforth for me. 

Do not weep so — Dear — heart-warm ! 
It was best as it befell ! 

If I say he did me harm, 

I speak it wild, — I am not well. 
All his words were kind and good- 
//(' cstfetnec/ inc ! Only blood 
Runs so faint in womanhood. 

Then I always was too grave, — 
Liked the saddest ballads sung, — 

With that look, besides, we have 
In our faces, who die young. 
I had died, Dear, all the same — 
Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
' Is too loud for my meek shame. 

We are so unlike each other. 

Thou and I ; that none could guess 

We were children of one mother, 
B it for mutual tenderness. 
Thou art rose-lined from the cold. 
And meant, verily, to hold 
Life's pure pleasures manifold. 



I am pale as crocus grows 

Close beside a rose-tree'.s root ! 

Whosoe'er would reach ihe rose. 
Treads the crocus undertoot — 
/, like May-bloom on thorn tree — 
Thou, like merry summer-bee! 
Fit, that / be plucked lor thee. 

Yet who plucks me ? — no one mourns- 
1 have lived my season out, 

And now die of my own thorns 
Which I could not live without. 
Sweet, be merry! How the light 
Comes and goe.s ! If it be night. 
Keep the candles in my sight. 

Are there footsteps at the door ? 
Look out quickly. V'ea, or nay? 

Some one might be waiting for 
Some last word that I might say. 
Nay'? So best ! — So angels would 
Stand off clear from deathly road. 
Not to cross the sight of God. 

Colder grow my hands and feet — 
When [ wear the shroud I made. 

Let the foldi lie straight and neat. 
And the rosemary be spread. 
That if any friend sliould come, 
{To see tiiee, sweet !j all the room 
May be lifted out of gloom. 

And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
On my hand this little nng. 

Which at nights, when others sleep, 
I can still see glittering. 
Let me wear it out of sight. 
In the grave,— where it will light 
All the Dark up, day and night. 

On that grave, drop not a tear ! 

Else, though fathom-deep the place. 
Through the woollen shroud I wear 

I shall feel it on my face. 

Rather smile there, blessed one. 

Thinking of me in the sun — 

Or forget me — smiling on ! 

Art thou near me? nearer? so. 
Kiss me close upon the eyes. 

That the earthly light may go 
Sweetly as it used to rise. 
When I watched the morning-gray 
Strike, betwi.vt the hills, the way 
He was sure to come that day. 



134 



THE RUNAWAY SLAVE. 



So, — no more vain words be said ! 
Tlie hosannas nearer roll — 

Mother, smde now on thy Dead, 
I am death-strong in my soul. 
Mystic Dove alit on cross. 
Guide the poor bird of the snows 
Through the snow-wind above loss ! 

fesus, Victim, comprehending 
Love's divine self-abnegation. 

Cleanse my love in self-spending. 
And absorb the poor libation ! 
Wind my thread of life up higher, 
Up. through angels' hands of fire ! — 
I aspire while I e.\pire ! 



THAT DAY. 

I STAND by the river where both of us 

stood. 
And there is but one shadow to darken 

the flood ; 
And the path leading to it, where both 

used to pass. 
Has the step but of one, to take dew 

from the grass. — 

One forlorn since that d.ay. 

The flowers of the margin are many to 

see. 
For none stoops at my bidding to pluck 

them for me ; 
The bird in the alder sings loudly and 

long. 
For my low 93und of weeping disturbs 

not his song. 

As thy vow did that day 

I stand by the river — I think of tlie 

vow — 
Oh, calm as the place is, vow-breaker 

be thou ! 
I leave the flower growing — the bird, 

unreprored, — 
Would I trouble thee rather than tJieiii, 

my beloved. 

And my lover that day ? 

Go ! be sure of my love — by that trea- 
son forgiven ; 

Of my prayers — by the blessings they 
will thee from Heaven ; 



Of my grief — (guess the length of tl'.e 

sword by the sheath's) 
By the silence of life, more patlie;ic 

than death's ! 

Go, — be Ciear of tli.at day ! 



LIFE AND LOVE. 



Fast this life of mine was dying. 
Blind already and calm as death ; 

Snowflakes on her bosom lying 

Scarcely heaving with the breath. 



Love came by. and having known her 
In a dream of fabled lands. 

Gently stooped, and laid upon her 
Mystic chrism of holy hands • 



Drew his smile across her folded 
Eyelids, as the swallow dips. 

Breathed as finely as the cold did. 
Through the locking of her lips. 



So, when Life looked upward, being 
Warmed and breathed on from alKi\ 

What sight could she have for seeuig, 
Evermore. . . .but only Love ? 



THE RUNAWAY SLAVE 



I STAND on the mark beside the shore 
Of the first white pilgrim's bended 
knee. 
Where e.vile turned to ancestor. 

And God was thanked for liberty. 
I have run through the night, my skin is 

as dark 
I bend my knee down o\\ this mark . . 
1 look on the sky and the sea. 



THE R UNA IVA 1 ' SLA VE. 



O pilgrim souls, I speak to you ! 

i see you come out proud and slow 
From the land of the spirits pale as 
dew . . 
And round me and round me you go ! 
O pilgrims, 1 have gasped and ran 
All night long from the whips of one 
Who in your names works sin and 
woe. 



And thus I thought that 1 would come 
And kneel here where ye knelt before, 

And fee! your souls around me hum 
In imdertone to the ocean's roar ; 

And lift my black face, my black hand. 

Here, in your names, to curse this land 
Ye blessed in freedom's evermore. 



I am black, I am black ; 

And yet God made me, they say. 
But if he did so, smiling back 

He must have cast his work away 
Under the feet of his white creatures. 
With a look of scorn, — that the dusky 
features 

Might be trodden again to clay. 



And yet He ha. made dark things 

To be glad and merry as light. 
There's a little dark bird, sits and sings ; 
There's a dark stream ripples out of 
sight ; 
And the dark frogs chant in the safe 

morass. 
And the sweetest stars are made to pass 
O'er the face of the darkest night. 



But ice who are dark, we are dark ! 

Ah God, we have no stars ! 
About our souls in care and cark 

Our blackness shuts like prison-bars ; 
The poor souls crouch so far behind, 
'Ihat never a comfort can they find 

By reaching through the prison-bars. 



Indeed we live beneath the sky, 

'Ihat great smooth Hand of God 
stretched out 



On all His children fatherly. 

To save them from the dread and 
doubt 
Which would be, if, from this low place. 
All opened straight up to His face 

Into the grand eternity. 

VIII. 

And still God's sunshine and His frost. 

They make us hot, they make us cold. 
And if we were not black and lost : 
And the beasts and birds, in wood and 
fold. 
Do fear and take us for very men I 
Could the weep-poor-will or the cat of 
the glen 
Look into my eyes and be bold ? 

IX. 

I am black, I am black ! — 

But, once 1 laughed in girlish glee ; 
For one of my color stood in the track 
Where the drivers drove, and looked 
at me — 
And tender and full was the look he 

gave : 
Could a slave look so at another 
slave ? — 
I look at the sky and the sea. 



And from that hour our spirits grew 
As free as if unsold, unbought: 

Oh, strong enough, since we were twc. 
To conquer the world we thought ! 

The drivers drove us day by day ; 

We did not mind, we went one way 
And no better a freedom sought. 



In the sunny ground between the canes. 

He said ' I love you ' as he passed : 
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with 
the rains, 
I heard how he vowed it fast : 
While others shook he smiled in the hr.t 
As he carved me a bowl of the cocoa- 
nut 
Through the roar of the hurricanes. 



I sang his name instead of a song 
Over and over I sang his name- 



THE RUNAWAY SLAVE. 



Upward and downward I drew it along 
My various notes ; the same, the 

same ! 
I sang it low, that the slave girls near 
Might never guess from aught they 

could hear, 
' It was only a name — a name. 



I look on the sky and the sea — 

We were two to love, and two to 
pray,— 

\ es, two, O God, wlio cried to Thee, 
Though nothing didst Thou say. 

Coldly Ihou sat'st behind the sun ! 

And now I cry who am but one, 
Thou wilt speak to-day. — 



xi\-. 
We were black, we were black ! 

Wc had no claim to love and bliss : 
A^hat marvel, if each went to wrack ? 
They wrung my cold hands out of 
his,— 
They dragged him . . where ? . . I 

crawled to touch 
His blood's mark in the dust I . . not 
much, 
Ye pilgrim-souls, . . though plain as 
this ! 



Wrong followed by a deeper wrong ! 

Mere grief's too good for such as I. 
So the white men brought the shame ere 
long 

To strangle the sob of my agony. 
They would not leave me for my dull 
Wet eyes ! — it was too merciful 

To let me weep pure tears and die. 

XVI. 
I am black, 1 am black ! 

I wore a child upon my breast . . 
An amulet that himg too slack. 

And, in my imrest, coidd not. vest : 
Thus we went moaning, child and 

mother 
One to another, one to another. 
Until all ended for the best : 



For hark ! I will tell you low . . low . . 

I am black, you .see, — 
And the babe who lay on my bosom so. 
Was far too white . too white for 
me ; 
As white as the ladies who scorned to 

pray 
]jeside me at church but yesterday : 
Though my tears had wa.shed a place 
for my knee. 

xviir. 
My own, own child ! I could not bear 

To look ,n hi.s face, it was so white. 
I covered him up with a kerchief there ; 
I covered nis face in close and tight ; 
And he moaned and struggled, as well 

might be. 
For the white child wanted his liberty — 
Ha, ha ! he wanted the master right. 



He moaned and beat with his head and 
feet, 
His little feet that never grew — 
He struck them out, as it was meet. 

Against my heart to break it through. 
I might have sung and made him mild — 
But I dared not sing to the white-faced 
child 
The only song I knew. 



I pulled the kerchief very close : 

He could not see the sun, I swear 
More, then, alive, than now he does 
From between the roots of the man- 
go .. . where ? 
I know where. Close ! a child anci 
mother 
Do wrong to look at one another. 
When one is black and one is fair. 



Why, in that single glance . had 
Of my child's face, . . I tell you all, 

I saw a look that made me mad . . 
The master's look, that used to fall 

On my soul like his lash . . or worse !— 

And so, to save it from my curse, 
' I twisted it round in my shawl. 



^^^ 














THE R UNA IV AY SLA i-E. 137 








XXII. 


XXVII. 








And he moaned and trembled from foot 


Yet when it was all done aright, . . 








to head. 


Earth, 'twi.xt me and my baby. 








He shivered from head to foot ; 


strewed, . . 








Till, after a time, he lay mstead 


All changed to black earth, . . nothuig 








Too suddenly still and mute. 


white, . . 








I felt beside a stilTeiiing cold . . 


A dark child in the dark, — ensued 








I dared to lift up just a fold, . . 


Some comfort, and my heart grew 








As ill lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit. 


young : 
I sate down smiling theie and sung 








X.VIII. 


The song I learnt in my maidenhood. 








But my fruit . . ha, ha ! — there had been 










(I laugh to think on't at this hour ! . .) 


XXVIII. 








Your fine white angels, who have seen 


And thus we two were reconciled. 








Nearest the secret of God's power, . . 


The white child and black mother. 








And plucked my fruit to make them 


thus : 








wine, 


For, as I sang it soft and wild 








And sucked the soul of that child of 


The same song, more melodious. 








mine. 


Rose from the grave whereon 1 sate ! 








As the hum ming-bird sucks the soul 


It was the dead child singing that, 








of the flower. 


To join the souls of both of us. ' 








XXIV. 


XXIX. 








Ha, ha, the trick of the angels white ! 


I look on the sea and the sky ! 

Where the pilgrims' ships first an- 








They freed the white child's spirit so. 








I said not a word, but, day and night. 


chored lay. 
The free sun rideth gloriously ; 








I carried the body to and fro ; 








And it lay on my heart like a stone . . 


But the pilgrim-ghosts have slid away 








as chill. 


Through the earliest streaks of the mo'-n. 








— The sun may shine out as much as he 


My face is black, but it glares with a 








will : 


scorn 








I am cold, though it happened a 


Which they dare not meet by day. 








month ago. 








XXV. 


xxx. 






From ihe white man's house, and the 


Ah ! — in their 'stead, their hunter sons ! 








black man's hut. 


Ah, ah ! they are on me — they hunt 








I carried the little body on. 


in a ring — 








The forest's arms did round us shut. 


Keep off! I brave you all at once — 








And silence through the trees did run : 


1 throw off your eyes like snakes that 








They asked no question as I went.^ 


sting ! • 








They stood too high for astonishment, — 


You have killed the black eagle at nest, 








They could see God sit on his throne. 


I th ink : 
Did you never stand still in your tri- 








XXVI. 


umph, and shrink 






My little body, kerchiefed fast. 


From the stroke of her wounded 


" 




I bore it on through the forest . . on : 


wing ? 








And when I felt it was tired at last, 










I scooped a hole beneath the moon. 


XXXI. 








Through the forest-tops the angels far. 


(Man, drop that stone you dared to 








With a white shape finger from every 


lift !— ) 








star, 


I wish you who stand there five 








Did point and mock at what was done. 


abreast. 

























A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 



Each, for his own wife's joy and gift, 

A little corpse as safely at rest 
As mine in the mangoes ! — Yes, but she 
May keep live babies on her knee. 
And sing the song she hketh best. 

XXXII. 

I am not mad : I am black. 

1 s;e you staring m my face — 
I know you .staring, .shrinking back — 

Ye are born of the Washington-race : 
And this land is the free America : 
And this mark on my wrist . , (1 prove 
what 1 say) 
Ropes tied me up here to the flog- 
ging-place. 

XXXIII. 
You think I shrieked then? Not a 
sound ! 
I htmg, as a gourd hangs in the sun. 
I only cursed them all around. 

As softly as I might have done 
My very own child ! — From these sands 
Up to the mountains, lift your hands, 
O slaves, and end what I begun ! 

xxxiv. 
Whips, curses : those must answer those ! 

For in this Union, you have set 
Two kinds of men in adverse rows. 

Each loathing each : and all forget 
The seven wounds m Christ's body fair ; 
While He sees gaping everywhere 
Our countless wounds that pay no 
debt. 



Your white 



who 



XXXV. 

Our woimds are different 
men * 
Are, after all, not gods indeed. 
Nor able to make Christs again 
Do good with bleeding. U'f 
bleed 
(Stand off !) we help not in our loss ! 
IVe are too heavy for our cross. 
And fall and crush you and your seed. 

XXXVI. 

I fall, I swoon ! 1 look at the sky : 

The clouds are breaking on my brain ; 
I am floated along as if I should die 



Of liberty's e.xquisite pain — 
In the name of the white child waiting 

for me 
In the death-dark where wc may kiss 

and agree. 
White men, I leave you all curse-free 
In my broken heart's disdain ! 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLOf 
ENCE. 



A. A. E. C. 
r.Y, 1S4S. DlKIl NuVKMBHK, IS49. 



Of English blood, of Tuscan birth, . . 

What country should we give her? 
Instead of any on the earth. 

The civic Heavens receive her. 



Ana here, among the Eiglish tombs. 
In Tuscan ground we lay her, 

While the blue Tuscan sky endomes 
Our English words of prayer. 



A little child ! — how long she lived. 
By months, not years, is reckoned : 

Born in one July, she survived 
Alone to see a second. 



Bright-featured, as the July sun 
Her little face still played in. 

And splendours, with her birth begun. 
Had had no time for fading. 



So, LiLV, from those July hourr. 

No wonder we should call her : 
She looked such kinship to the flowers, 

Was but a little taller. 



A Tuscan Lily, only white . . 

As Dante, in abhorrence 
Of red corruption, wished aright 

The lilies of his Florence. 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 



We could not wish her whiter, . . He 
Who perfumed with pure blossom 

Ihe house ! — a lovely thmg to wear 
Upon ;i mother's bosom 1 



This July creature thought perhaps 
Our speech not worth assumuig : 

She sate upon her parents' laps, 

And mnnicked the gnat's humming ; 



. . Said ' Father,' ' Mother 1 '—then left 
off; 

For tongues celestial, fitter. 
Her hair had grown just long enough 

To catch Heaven's jasper-gUtter. 



Babes ! Love cowrld always hear and see 
Behind the cloud that hid them : 

' Let little chddren come to me, 
And do not thou forbid them.' 



So, unforbidding we have met, 
And gently here have laid her ; 

Though winter is no time to get 

The flowers that should o'ersprcad 
her. 



W 



ihould bring pansies quick v.'ith 
spring, 
Rose, violet, daffodilly. 
And also, above everything, 
White lilies for our Lily. 



Nay, more than flowers, this grave 
e.vacts . . 

Glad, grateful attestations 
Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts, 

With calm renunciations. 



Her very mother with light feet 
Should leave the place ton earthy, 

Say' .g, 'The angels have thee, sweet, 
Because we arc not worthy.' 



XV. 

But winter kills the orange-buds, 
I'he gardens in the frost are ; 

And all the heart dissolves in floods, 
Remembering we have lost her ! 



Poor earth, poor heart ! — too weak, too 
weak, 
To miss the July shining ! 
Poor heart! — what bitter words we 

speak, 
When God speaks of resigning ! 

XVII. 

Sustain this heart in us that faints. 
Thou God, the self-e.\i?tent ! 

We catch up wild at parting saints, 
And feel thy Heaven too distant I 

XVIII, 
The wind that swept them out of sin, 

Has ruflled all our vesture : 
On the shut door that let them in. 

We beat with frantic gesture ; 

XIX. 

To us, us also — open straight ! 

The outer life is chilly — 
Are ive too, like the earth to wait 

Till next year for our Lily ? 



— Oh, my own baby on my knees, 
My leaping, dimpled treasure. 

At every word I write like these. 

Clasped close, with stronger pressure 1 



Too well my own heart understands . 

At every word beats fuller . . . 
My little feet, my litde hands, 

And hair of Lily's colour ! 



— But God gives patience. Love learnn 
strength. 

And Faith remembers promise ; 
And hope itself can smile at length 

On other hopes gone from us, 



140 



A CHILD'S CRAl'E AT FLORENCE. 



XXllI, 
Love, strong as Death, shall conqiicf 
Death, 
Though struggle, made moi'e glorious : 
This mother stills her sobbing breath. 
Renouncing, yet victorious. 

XXIV. 

Arms, empty of her child, she lifts. 

With spirit unbereaven-^ 
' God Will not all take back His gifts : 

My Lily's mine in Heaven 1 



Still mine, maternal rights serene 

Not given to another I 
The crystal bars shine faint between 

The souls of child and mother. 

XXVI. 

' Meanwhile,' the mother cries, ' con- 
tent ! 

Our love was well divided ; 
Its sweetness following where she Went, 

Its anguish siayed where I did. 

XXVIl. 

'Well done of God, to halve the lot, 
And give her all the sweetness I 

To us the empty room and cot, — 
To her, the Heaven's completeness : 



To us, this grave — to her, the rows 
The mystic palm trees spring in ; 



To lis, the silence in the house,-— 
To her, the choral singing ! 
XXIX. 

' For her to gladden In God's view, — 
For us to hope and bear on ! 

Grow, Lily, in thy garden new. 
Beside the Rose of Sharon. 



' Grow fast in Heaven, sweet Lily 
clipped, 

In love more calm than this is. — 
And may the angels dewy-lipped 

Remind thee of our kisses! 

XXXI. 

■ While none shall tell thee of our tears. 
These human tears now falling ; 

Till, after a few patient years. 
One home shall take us all in ; 

ixxii. 

' Child, father, mother— who, left out ? 

Not mother, and n A father ! — 
And when, their dyini ^^,■o.;h about, 

The natural mist= srvCS gather, 

XXX'M. 

' Some smiling angel close shall stand 

In old Correggio's fa.;t lon, 
And bear a LiLV in his hand. 

For death's annunciatwn.' 



TRANSLATIONS. 



SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 



I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had 

sung 
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished- 

for years, 
Who each one in a gracious hand 

appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young ; 
And, as 1 mused it in his antique tongue, 
I saw in gradual vision through my 

tears, 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy 

years. 
Those of my own life, who by turns had 

fluns 
A shadow across me. Straightway I 

was 'ware, 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did 

move 
Behind me, and drew me backward by 

the hair ; 
And a voice said in mastery while I 

strove, . . 
' Guess now who holds thee Y — ' Death I' 

I said. But there. 
The silver answer rang . . ' Not Death, 

but Love.' 



But only three in all God's universe 
Have heard this word thou hast said : 

Himself, beside 
Thee speaking and me listening 1 and 

replied 
One of us . . f/tai was God 1 . . and laid 

the curse 
So darkly on my eyelids as to amerce 
My sight from seeing thee,— -that if I 

had died. 
The deathweights placed there, would 

have signified 
Less absolute exclusion. ' Nay is 

worse 
From God than from all others, O my 

friend ! 



Men could not part us with their worldly 
jars, 

Nor the seas change us, nor the tem- 
pests bend : 

Our hands would touch for all the 
mountain-bars : — 

And, heaven being rolled between us 
at the end. 

We shouUi but vow the faster for the 
stars, 

III. 
Uniike are we, unlike, O princely 

Heart! 
Unlike our uses and our destinies. 
Our ministering two angels look sur- 
prise 
On one another, as they strike athwart 
Their wings in passhig. Thou, bethink 

thee, art 
A gueit for queens to social pageantries. 
With gazes from a hundred brighter 

eyes 
Than tears even can make mine, to ply 

thy part 
Of chief musician. What hast ^/tau to 

do 
With looking from the lattice-lights at 

me, 
A poor, tired, wandering singer? . . 

singing through 
The dark, and leaning up a cypress 

tree ? 
The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, 

the dew, — 
And death must dig the level where 

these agree. 

IV. 
Thou hast thy calling to some palace 

floor, 
Most gracious singer of high poems I 

wliere 
The dancers will break footing from the 

care 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



(Twitching up thy pregnant lips for 

more. 
And dost thou lift this house's latch too 

poor 
For hand of thine ? and canst thou think 

and bear 
To let thy music drop here unaware 
In folds of golden fulness at my door ? 
Look up and see the casement broken in, 
The bats and owlets builders in the roof! 
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. 
Hush ! call no echo up in further proof 
Of desolation ! there's a voice vvithm 
That weeps. . as thou must sing. . alone 

aloof. 



I LIFT my heavy heart tip solemnly, 
A. once Electra her sepulchral urn, 
And looking in thine eyes, 1 overturn 
'l\\i ashes at thy feet. Rehold and see 
What a great heap of grief lay hid in 

me. 
And how the "-ed wild .sparkles dimly 

burn 
Through the a^hen greyness. If thy 

foot in scorn 
Could tread them out to darkness 

utterly. 
It might be well perhaps. But if in- 
stead 
Thou wait beside me for the wind to 

blow 
The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on 

thine head, 
O My beloved, will not shield thee so. 
That none of all the fires shall scorch 

and shred 
The hair beneath. Stand farther off 

then ! Go. 



Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall 

stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Never- 
more 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, 1 shall command 
7 he uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the simshine as before. 
Without the sense of that which I for- 
bore, . . 
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest 
land 



I Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart 

in mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I 

do 
And what I dream include thee, as the 

wine 
Must ta.ste of its own grapes. And when 

I sue 
God for myself. He hcai-s that name of 

thine. 
And sees within my eyes, the tears of 

two. 



The face of all the world is changed, I 

think. 
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy 

soul 
Move still, oh, still, beside me ; as they 

stole 
( Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
Of obvious death, where 1 who thought 

to sink 
Was caught up into love .iiid tpught the 

whole 
Of life in a new rhythir, 'J he cup of 

dole 
God gave for baptism. 1 .""V fsin to di-ink. 
And praise its £weeti.M>.s, sweet, with 

thee anear. 
The name of country, heaven, are 

changed away 
For where thou art or shalt be, there or 

here ; 
And this . . this lute and song . . loved 

yesterday, 
(The singing angels know) are only 

dear. 
Because thy name moves right in what 

they say. 



What can I give thee back, O liberal 
And princely giver, . . who has brought 

the gold 
And purple of thine heart, imstaincd, 

untold, 
And laid them on the outside of the 

wall 
For such as I to take or leave withal. 
In imexpected lara;esse ? Am I cold. 
Ungrateful, that for these most mani- 

■ fold 
High gifts, I render nothing back at all ? 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



143 



Not sn. Not cold ! — but very poor in- 
stead ! 

Ask God who knows ! for frequent tears 
have run 

The colours from my life, and left so 
dead 

And pale ,a stuflT, it were not fitly done 

To give the same as pillow to thy head. 

Go farther ! Let it serve to trample on. 



Can it be right to give what I can give ? 
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears 
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing 

years 
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
Through those infrequent smiles which 

fail to live 
For all thy adjurations? O my fears, 
That this can scarce be right ! We are 

not peers. 
So to be lovers ; and I own and grieve 
That givers of such gifts as mine are, 

must 
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, 

alas ! 
I will not soil thy purple with my dust. 
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice- 
glass, 
Nor give thee any love . . which were 

unjust. 
Beloved, 1 only love thee ! let it pass. 



Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful in- 
deed 
And worthy of acceptatioQ. Fire is 

bright. 
Let temple burn, or fla.x ! An equal 

light 
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plunk or 

weed. 
And love is fire : and when I say at 

need 
I love thee . . mark ! . . I love thee ! . . 

in thy sight 
I stand transfigured, glorified aright. 
With conscience of the new rays that 

proceed 
Out of my face toward thine. There's 

nothing low 
In love, when love the lowest : meanest 

creatures 



Who love God, God accepts while lov- 
ing so. 

And what \feel, across the inferior fea- 
tures 

Of what I am, doth flash itself, and 
show 

How that great work of Love enhances 
Nature's. 



And therefore if to love can be desert. 
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale 
As these you see, and trembling knees 

that fail 
To bear the burden of a heavy heart. 
This weary minstrel-life that once was 

girt 
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail 
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightin- 
gale 
A melancholy music ! . . why advert 
To these things ? O Beloved, it is plain 
I am not of thy M'orth nor for thy place : 
And yet because I Icve thee, I obtain 
From that same love this vindicating 

grace. 
To live on still in love arjd yet in vam, . . 
To bless thee yet renjunce thee to thy 
face. 



Indeed this very love which is my 

boast. 
And which, when rising np from breast 

to brow, 
Doth crown me with a rubr hrge enow 
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner 

cost, . . 
This love even, all my worth, to the 

uttermost, 
I should not love withal, unless th^it thou 
Hadst set me an example, shown me 

how. 
When first thine earnest eyes with mine 

were crossed. 
And love called love. And thus, I can- 
not speak 
Of love even, as a good thing of my 

own. 
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint 

and weak, 
And placed it by thee on a golden 

throne, — 



144 



TRA.VSLA T/OyS. 



And that I love, (O soul, we must be 

meek !) 
Is by thee only, whom 1 Icve alone. 



And wilt thou have me fashion into 

speech 
The love I bear thee, finding words 

enough. 
And hold the torch out, while the winds 

are rough. 
Between our faces to cast light on 

each ? — 
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach 
My hand to hold my spirit so far off 
From myself . . me . . that I should 

bring thee proof 
In words, of love hid in me out of reach. 
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood 
Commend my woman-love to thy be- 
lief,— 
Seeing that I stand unwon, however 

wooed. 
And rend the garment of my life in 

brief. 
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude. 
Lest one touch of this heart convey its 

grief. 

XIV. 

If thou must love me, let it be for 

nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not 

say 
' I love her for her smile . . her look . . 

her way 
Of speaking gently, . . for a trick of 

thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes 

brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a 

day ' — 
For these things in themselves. Beloved, 

may 
Ee changed, or change for thee, — and 

love so wrought. 
May be unwrought so. Neither love 

me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks 

dry ; 
A creature might forget to weep, who 

bore 
I'hy comfort long, and lose thy love 

thereby. 



But love me for love's sake, tliat ever- 
more 

Thou may'st love on through love's eter. 
nity. 

XV. 

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I 

wear 
Too calm and sad a face in front of 

thine ; 
For we two look two ways, and cannot 

shine 
With the same sunlight on our brow 

and hair. 
On me thou lookest with no doubting 

care. 
As on a bee .shut in a crystalhne, — 
For sorrow hath shut me safe in love's 

divine. 
And to spread wing and fly in the outer 

air 
Were most impossible failure, if I strove 
To fail so. But 1 look on thee . . on 

thee . . 
Beholding, besides love, the end of love. 
Hearing oblivion beyond memory . . . 
As one who sits and gazes from above. 
Over the rivers to the bittsr sea. 

XVI. 

And yet, because thou overcomcst so. 
Because thou art more noble and like a 

king. 
Thou canst prevail against my fears and 

fling 
Thy purple round me, till my heart 

shall grow 
Too close against thine heart, henceforth 

to know 
How it shook when alone. Why, con- 
quering 
May prove as lordly and complete a 

thing 
In lifting upward as in crushing low : 
And as a vanquished soldier yields his 

sword 
To one who lifts him from the bloody 

earth. — 
Even so, Beloved. I at last record. 
Here ends my strife. If /ht^u invite me 

forth, 
I ri.se above abasement at the word. 
Make thy love larger to enlarge my 

worth. 



TKA.VSL. I T/O.VS. 



xvn. 

My poet, thou canst touch on all the 

notes 
God set between His After and Before, 
And strike up and strike olf the general 

roar 
Of the rushing worlds, a melody that 

floats 
In a serene air purely. Antidotes 
Df medicated music, answering for 
Mankind's forlomest uses, thou canst 

pour 
From thence into their ears. God's will 

devotes 
Thine to such ends and mine to wait on 

thine ! 
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for 

most use ? 
A hope, to sing by gladly 1 . . or a fine 
Sad memory, with thy songs to inter- 
fuse ? 
A shade, in which to sing ... of palm 

or pine ? 
A grave, on which to rest from singing ? 

. , Choose. 



I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 

To a man, Dearest, except this to thee. 

Which now upon ray fingers thought- 
fully 

I ring out to the full brown length and 
say 

'Take it.' My day of youth went yes- 
terday ; 

My hair no longer bounds to my foot's 
glee. 

Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree. 

As girls do, any more. It only may 

Now shade on two pale cheeks, the 
mark of tears, 

Taught drooping from the head that 
hangs aside 

Through sorrow's trick. I thought the 
funeral shears 

Would take this first ; but Love is 
justified : 

Take it thou, . . finding pure, from all 
those years, 

The kiss my motaer left here when she 
died. 



The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise : 
I barter curl for curl upon that mart ; 
And from my poet's forehead to my 

heart. 
Receive this lock which outweighs ar- 
gosies, — 
As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes 
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed 

athwart 
The nine white Muse-brows. For this 

counterpart. 
The bay-crown's shade. Beloved, I 

surmise. 
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black ! 
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing 

breath, 
I tie the shadow safe from gliding back. 
And lay the gift where nothing hin- 

dereth. 
Here on my heart as on thy brow, to 

lack 
No natural heat till mine grows cold in 

death. 



Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago. 
What time 1 sate alone here in the snow 
And saw no footprint, heard the silence 

sink 
No moment at thy voice, . . but link by 

link 
Went counting all my chains as if that so 
They never could fall oft" at any blow 
Struck by thy possible hand .... why, 

thus 1 drink 
Of life's great cup of wonder. Won- 
derful, 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 
With personal act or speech, — nor ever 

cull 
Some prescience of thee with the blos- 
soms white 
Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are as 

dull. 
Who cannot guess God's presence out of 
sight. 



Sav over again and yet once over again 
That thou dost love me. Though the 
word repeated 



146 



TKANSLA TWNS. 



Slioiild seem ' a cuckoo-song,' as thou 

dost treat it, 
Remember never to the hill or plain, 
Valley and wood, without her cuclcoo- 

strani. 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green 

completed ! 
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit- voice, in that doubt's 

pain 
Cry . . speak once more . . thou lovest ! 

Who can fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven 

shall roll — 
Too many flowers, though each shall 

crown the year ? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me 

^ —toll 
The silver iterance ! — only minding, 

Dear, 
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 

xxii. 
WnEX our two souls stand up erect and 

strong. 
Face to face, drawing nigh and nigher. 
Until the lengthening wings break into 

fire 
At either curved point, — What bitter 

wrong' 
Can the earth do to us, that wc should 

not long 
Be here contented ? Think. In mount- 

uig higher. 
The angels would press on us, and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Rather on earth. Beloved, — where the 

unfit 
Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
And isolate pure .spirits, and permit 
A place to stand and love in for a day, 
^Vlth darkness and the death-hour 

roundnig it. 

XXllI. 
li it indeed .so? If I lay here dead, 
Wuuld'st thou miss any life in losing 

mine, 
And would the sun for thee more coldly 

shine. 
Because of grave-damps falling round 

my head ? 



I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 
Thy thought so ni the letter. 1 am 

thine — 
But . . so much to thee ? Can I pour 

thy wine 
While my hands tremble? Then my 

soul, instead 
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower 

range ! 
Then, love me. Love ! look on me . . 

breathe on me ! 
As brighter ladies do not count it strange. 
For love, to give up acres and degree, 
I yield the grave for thy sake, and 

e.'ichange 
My near sweet view of Heaven, for 

earth with tliee ! 

XXIV. 

Let the world's sharpness like a cla,sping 

knife 
Shut in upon itself and do no harm 
In this close hand of Love, now soft and 

warm ; 
And let us hear no sound of human strife 
After the click of the shutting. Life to 

life— 
I lean upon thee. Dear, without alarm. 
And feel as .safe as guarded by a charm. 
Against the stab of worldlings who if rife 
Are weak to injure. Very whitely still 
The lilies of our lives may reassure 
Their blossoms from their roots ! acces- 
sible 
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not 

fewer ; 
Growing straight, out of man's reach, on 

the hill. 
God only, who made us rich, can make 

us poor. 

XXV. 

A HEAVY heart. Beloved, have I borne 
From year to year until I saw thy lace. 
And .sorrow after sorrow took the place 
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn 
As the stringed pearls . . each lifted in 

its turn 
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes 

apace 
Were changed to long despairs, . . till 

God's own grace 
Could .scarcely lift above the world 

forlorn 



t/:a.vsla tions. 



My heavy heart. Then iliou didst bid 

me bring , 

And let it drop adown thy calmly great 
Deep being I Fast it ainkcth, as a thing 
Which its own natnre doth precipitate. 
While thine doth close above it medi- 
ating 
Betwixt the stars and the nnaccom- 
plisheJ fatd. 

XX'VI, 

I LIVED with visions for my company 
Instead of men and women, years ago. 
And found them gentle mates, nor 

thought to know 
A sweeter music than they played to 

nie. 
But soon their trailing purple was not 

free 
Of this world's dust, — their lutes did 

silent grow, 
And I myself grew faint and blind bc- 

lovr 
Their vanishing eyes. Then THna didst 

come . . to be. 
Beloved, what they seemed. Their 

shining fronts, 
Their songs, their splendours . . (better, 

yet the same. 
As water-river hallowed into fonts . . ) 
Met in thee, and from out thee over- 
came 
My soul with satisfaction of all wants — 
Because God's gifts put man's best 

dreams to shame. 

XXVII. 
Mv own Beloved, who hast lifted me 
From this drear flat of earth where 1 was 

thrown. 
And in betwi.xt the languid ringlets, 

blown 
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully 
Shines out again, as all the angels see. 
Before thy saving kiss ! My own, my 

own, 
Who camest to me when the world was 

gone. 
And I who only looked for God, found 

thee ! 
I find thee : I am safe, and strong, and 

glad. 
As one who stands in dewless asphodel 



Looks backward on the tedious time he 
had 

In the tipper life . . so I, with bosom- 
swell. 

Make witness here between the good 
and bad. 

That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves 
as well. 

XX'VIIt. 

My letters all dead paper, . . mute and 
white ! — 

And yet they seem alive and quiver- 
ing 

Against my tremulous hands which 
looie the .string 

And let them drop down on my knee to- 
night. 

This said, . . He wished to have me in 
his sight 

Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in 
spring 

To come and touch my hand ... a sim- 
ple thing. 

Yet I wept for it ! — this, . . . the p.iper's 
light . . 

Said, Dear. I loz>e thee : and I sank and 
quailed 

As if God's future thundered on my 
past ; 

This said / am thine— '^nA so its ink ha.s 
paled 

With lying at my heart that beat too 
fast : 

And this . . . O Love, thy words have 
ill availed, 

If, what tliis said, I dared repeat at last ! 

XXIX'. 

I THiMK of thee ! — ^my thoughts do twine 
and bud 

About thee, as wild vines .about a tree. 

Put out broad leaves, and soon there's 
noug'nt to see 

Except the straggling green which hides 
the wood. 

Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood 

I will not have my thoughts instead of 
thee 

Who art dearer, better ! Rather in- 
stantly 

Renew thy presence I As a strong tree 
should 



148 



TRANSLA T/CXVS. 



Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all 

bare. 
And let these bands of greenery whith 

insphere thee, 
Drop heavily down, . . burst, shattered, 

everywhere I 
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear 

thee 
And breathe within thy shadow a new 

air, 
I do not think of thee — I am too near 

thee. 



1 SEE thy image through my tears to* 

night. 
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. 

How 
Refer the cause ? — Beloved, is it thou 
Or I V Who makes me sad '? The 

acolyte 
Amid the chanted joy and' thankful rite, 
May so fall flat with pale insensate brow, 
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice 

and vow 
Perple.xed, vmcertaln, since thou'rt out 

of sight. 
As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's 

amen 1 
Beloved, dost thou love t or did T see all 
Tlie glory as I dreamed, and fainted 

when 
Too vehement light dilated my ideal 
For my soul's c/es'? Will that light 

come again. 
As now these tears come . . . falling hot 

and real 1 

X\Xl, 

TiioU comest 1 all is said without a 

word. 
I sit beneath thy looks, as children do 
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble 

through 
Their happy eyelids from an imaverred 
Yet prodigal inward joy, Behold, I 

erred 
in that last doubt I and yet I cannot rue 
The sin most, but the occasion . . . that 

we two 
Should for a moment stand tmministered 
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near 

and close. 



Thou dovelike help ! and, when my 
fears would rise, 

With thy broad heart serenely interpose 1 

Brood down with thy divine sufficien- 
cies 

These thoughts which tremble when 
bereft of those, 

Like callow birds left desert to the skies. 

XXXII. 

The first time that the sun rose on thine 

oath 
To love me, 1 looked forward to the 

moon 
To slacken all those bonds which seemed 

too soon 
And quickly tied to make a lasting 

troth. 
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may 

quickly loathe ; 
And, looking on myself, I seemed not 

one 
For such man's love I—more like an out 

of tune 
Worn viol, a good singer would be 

wroth 
To spoil his song with, and which, 

snatched in haste. 
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding 

note. 
J. did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
A wrong on i/iee. For r ^rfect strains 

may float 
'Neath master-hands, from instruments 

defaced, — 
And great souls, at one stroke, may do 

and doat. 

XXX'III. 

Yes, call me by my pet-name 1 let me 

hear 
The name I used to run at, when a child. 
From innocent play, and leave the cow- 
slips piled, 
To glance up in some face that proved 

me dear 
With the look of its eyes, I miss the 

clear 
Fond voices, which, being drawn and 

reconciled 
Into the music of Heaven's tindefiled, 
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier, 
While / call (iod . . call God !— So let 
thy mouth 



TRAXSLA TIONS. 



149 



Be heir to those who are now exani- 
mate : 

Gather the north flowers to complete 
the south. 

And catch the early love up in the late I 

Yes, call me by that name,— and I, in 
truth. 

With the same heart, will answer and 
not wait. 

XXXIV. 
With the same heart, I said, I'll answer 

thee 
As those, when thou shalt call me by 

my name— 
Lo, the vain promise I Is the same, the 

same, 
Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy ? 
When called before, I told how hastily 
I dropped my flowers, or brake oflF from 

a game. 
To run and answer with the smile that 

came 
At play last moment, and went on with 

me 
Through my obedience. When I answer 

now, 
I drop a grave thought ;— break from 

solitude ;■ — 
Vet still my heart goes to thee . . . pon- 
der how . . 
Not sr, to a single good but all my good ! 
Lay ihy hand on it, best one, and allow 
That no child's foot could run fast as 

this blood. 

xsxv. 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
Home-talk and blessing, and the com- 
mon kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it 

strange. 
When I look up to drop on a new range 
Of walls and floors . . another home 

than this? 
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me 

which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know 

change ? 
Th.tt's hardest ! If to conquer love, has 

tried. 
To conquer grief tries more ... as all 

things prove. 



For grief indeed is love and grief be- 
side. 
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to 

love- 
Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine 

heart wide. 
And fold within, the wet wings of thy 
dove. 

xxxvi. 
When we first met and loved, I did not 

build 
Upon tne event with marble. Could it 

mean 
To last, a love set pendulous between 
Sorrow and sorrow ? Nay, I rather 

thrilled, 
Distrusting every light that seemed to 

gild 
The onward path, and feared to over- 
lean 
A finger even. And though I have 

grown serene 
And strong since then, I think that God 

has willed 
A still renewable fear . . O love, O 

troth . . 
Lest these enclasped hands should never 

hold, 
This mutual kiss drop down between us 

both 
As an unowned thing, once the lips being 

cold. 
And Love be false I if he, to keep one 

oath, 
Must lose one joy by his life's star fore- 
told. 

XXXVII. 

P.\RDON, oh, pardon, that my soul should 
make 

Of all that strong divineness which I 
know 

For thine and thee, an image only so 

Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and 
break. 

It is that distant years which did not 
take 

Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow, 

Have forced my swimming brain to un- 
dergo 

Their cfoubt and dread, and blindly to 
forsake 

Thy purity of likeness, and distort 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Thv worthiest love to a worthless coun- , The patient angel waiting for his place 
^. _?':» In the new Heavens: because nor sin 



terfeit. . 

As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port. 
His guardian sea-god to commemorate. 
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills 

a-snort. 
And vibrant tail, within the temple- 
gate. 

XXXVIII. 

First time he kissed me, lie but only 

kissed 
The fingers of this hand wherewith 1 

write, 
And ever since it grew more clean and 

white, ... • 1 ■ i 

Slow to world-greetings . . quick with 

its 'Oh, list,' 
When the angels speak. A ring of 

amethyst 
I could not wear here plainer to my 

Than that first kiss. The second passed 

in height , , , i 

The first, and sought the forehead, and 

half missed. 
Half falling on the hair. O beyond 

meed ! -,11 

That was the chrism of love with love s 

own crown. 
With sanctifying sweetness, did pre- 

The third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state 1 since when, 

indeed, n. t 

I have been proud and said, ' My Love, 

ray own.' 

XXXIX. 

Because thou hast the power and own'st 

the grace , . , . • , 

To look through and behind this mxsk 

of me, , 

(Against which years have beat thus 

blanchlngly 
With their rains !) and beheld my soul s 

true face, . r -.-r , 

The dim and dreary witness of lite s 

race ; — ,11 

Because thou h.ast the faith and love to 

see. 
Through that same souls distracting 

lethargy. 



In the new Heavens : because nor 
nor woe. 

Nor God's infliction, nor death's neigh- 
borhood. 

Nor all which others viewing, turn to 
go, . . 

Nor all which makes me tired of all, 
self-viewed, . . 

Nothing repels thee, . . De.arest, teach 
me so 

To pour out gratitude, as thou i.ost, 
good 1 



Oh, yes ! they love through all this 

world of ours 1 
I will not gainsay love, called love for- 

.sooth. 
I have heard love talked 111 my early 

youth, 
And since, not so long back but that the 

flo w ers 
Then gathered, smell still. Mussiil- 

mans and Giaours 
Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have 110 

ruth 
For any weeping. Polypheme s white 

tooth 
Slips on the nut, if after frequent show- 
ers 
The shell is oversmooth ; and not so 

much 
Will turn the thing called love, aside to 

hate. 
Or else to oblivion. But thou art not 

such 
A lover, my Beloved ! thou canst wait 
Through sorrow and sickness, to bring 

souls to touch. 
And think it soon when others cry ' Too 

late.' 



I THANK all who have loved me in their 

hearts. 
With thanks and love from mine. Deep 

thanks to all 
Who paused a little near the prison-wall. 
To hear my music in its louder parts. 
Ere they went onward, each one to the 

mart's 
Or temple's occupations, beyond all. 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



But tlioii, who ill my voice's sink and 
fall. 

When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's 

Own instrument didst drop down at thy 
foot, 

To hearken what I said between my 
tears, . . 

Instruct me how to thank thee I — Oh, to 
shoot 

My soul's full meaning into future years, 

That they should lend it utterance, and 
salute 

Love that endures I with Life that dis- 
appears ! 



XI.lf. 
How do I love thee ? . Let me count 

the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth 

and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of 

sight 
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of everyday's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for 

Right : 
I love thee purely, as they turn from 

Praise ; 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my child- 
hood's faith ; 
I love thee with a love T seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, — 1 love thee with 

the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if 

God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 



Beloved, thou hast brought me many 

flowers 
Plucked in the garden, all the summer 

through 
And winter, and it seemed as if they 

grew 
In this clo=;e room, nor missed the sun 

and showers. 
So, in the like name of that love of ours. 
Take back these thoughts which here 

unfolded too, 



And which on warm and cold days I 

withdrew 
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those 

beds and bowers 
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, 
And Wait thy weeding : yet here's 

eglantine. 
Here's ivy ! — take them, as I used to do 
Thy flowers, and keep them where they 

shall not pine ; 
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours 

true. 
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in 

mine. 



My/titure will not coiy/air itty past. 
1 wrote that once ; and thinking at my 

side 
My ministering life-angel justified 
The word by his appealing look upcast 
To the white throne of God, I turned at 

last 
And there, instead, saw thee : not tin- 
allied 
To angels in thy soul I Then I, long 

tried 
By natural ills, received the comfort fast. 
While budding at thy sight, my pilgrim's 

staflf 
Gave out green leaves with morning 

dews impearled. 
— I seek no copy now of life's first half ! 
Leave here the pages with long musing 

curled. 
And write me new my future's epigraph. 
New angel mine, unhoped for in the 

world 1 



PARAPHRASES ON HEINE. 

RO.ME, 1S60. 

I. 



Out of my own great woe 

1 make my little songs. 

Which rustle their feathers in throngs. 

And beat on her heart even so. 



, 52 T/^A.VSLA 770A'S. 




It 


We made her a bow and curtsey. 




They found their way, for their part, 


Each with a compliment in it, 




Ye come again and complain, 






Complain, and are not fam 


V. 




To say what they saw iu her heart. 


After her health we asked, 
Our care and regard to evince — 
(We have made the very same speeches 
To many an old cat since). 




11. 


VI. 






We also sate and wisely 


' 


I. 


Discoursed, as old folks do. 




Art thou indeed so adverse 1 


Complaining how all went better 




Art thou so changed indeed ? 


In those good times we knew,— 




Against the woman who wrongs me 






I cry to the World in my need. 


VII. 




I!. 


How love and truth and believing 




O recreant lips unthankful, 

How could ye speak evil, say, 

Of the man who so Well has kissed you 


Had left the world to itself, 
And how so dear was the coffee. 
And how so rare was the pelf. 




On many a fortunate day ? 


VIII. 

The children's games are over, 

The rest is over with youth— 

The world, the good games, the good 






times. 




lit. 


The belief, and the love, and the truth. 




I. 
Mv child, we were two children, 






Small, merry by childhood's law ; 






We used to crawl to the hen-house, 






And hide ourselves in the straw. 






n. 


IV. 




We crowed like cocks, and whenever 






The passers near us drew — 


I. 




Cock-a-doodle ! they thought 


Thou lovest me not, thou lovest me not 1 




'Twas a real cock that crew. 


'Tis scarcely worth a sigh : 
Let me lookiu thy face, and no king in 




III. 


his place 




The bo,i;es .about our courtyard 


Is a gladder man th.an I. 




We carpeted to our mind. 






And lived there both together- 


II. 




Kept house in a noble kind. 


Thou hatest me well, thou hatest me 
well— 




IV. 


Thy little red mouth has told : 




The neighbor's old cat often 


Let it reach me a kiss, and, however it is. 




Came to pay us a visit ; 


My child, I am well consoled. 





TRANSLA TIONS. 



1. 
Mv own sweet Love, if" thou in tho 
grave, 
The darksome grave, wiU be, 
Then will I go down by tha side, and 
crave 
Love-room for thee and me. 



I kiss and caress and press thee wild, 
Thou still, thou cold, thou white 1 

I wail, I tremble, and Weeping mild, 
Turn to a corpse at the right. 



The Dea 1 stand up, the midnight call? 

They dance in airy sWarms— 
We two keep still w'here the grave- 
shade falls, 

And I lie on in thine arms. 



The Dead stand up, the Judgment-day 

Bids such to Weal or Woe^ 
Put nought shall trouble us where we 
stay 

Embraced and embracing below. 



VI. 



The years they come and go, 
I'he races drop in the grave. 
Yet never the love doth so, 
Which ni my heart I have. 



Could I see thee but once, one day 
And sink down so on my knee, 
.^nd die in thy sight while I say, 
' Lady, t love but thee 1 ' 



Thksk Translation!! were only Intended, 
m.mv ye.i:M tiico, to ;icconi|)r\ny jind explain 
ce.'tainKnjiravingrt alter an -i.^U Oenis. in tlie 
p.oiected Woiii ol a Irl^MKl, l)y Whose liilldneM 
tliey are now recovered : bnt a.-i two ot the 
original series (ttie "Adonis:" of Dion, and 
■■ S.nii; to tlie Itose," from Aclilllcs Tallns liaci 
alieady lieen inclnJed in tliese poems, it is pre- 
sumed tiiat llie renlaimler may not ini)iropei-iy 



appea 



Sle 1 



lit version id added. 



PARAPHRASE ON THEOCRI- 
TUS. 

THfi CVCLOPS. 

(Idyl XI.) 
And so an easier life our Cyclops drew, 
The ancient Polyphemus, who in 
youth 
Loved Galatea, while the manhood grew 
AdoWn his cheeks and dai*kened round 
his mouth. 
No jot he careJ-foi" apples, olives, roses ; 
Love made him mad : the whole 
World was neglected, 
T+ie very sheep went backward to tb.clr 
closes 
Fi'om out the fair greert pastures, self- 
directed. 
And singing Galatea, thus, he wore 
The sunrise down along the Weedy 
shore. 
And pined alone, and felt the cruel 
Wound 
Beneath his heart, which Cypris'a 
arrow bore. 
With a deep pang ; but, so, the cure was 
found ; 
And sitting on a lofty rock he cast 
His eyes upon the sea, and sang at 
last';— 
' O whitest Galatea, can it be 
That thou shouldst spurn' me off who 
love thee so ? 
More white than curds, my girl, thou 

art to see. 
More meek than lambs, more full of 
leaping glee 
Than kids, and brighter than the 
early glov^ 



154 TRANSLA TIONS. 


On grapes that swell to ripen, — sonrlike 


And all in fawn ; and four tame 


thee! 


whelps of bears. 


Thou comest to me with the fragrant 


Come to me, Sweet ! thou shalt have 


sleep. 


all of those 


And with the fragrant sleep thou goest 


In change for love 1 1 will net halve 


from me ; 


the shares. 


Thou fliest . . fliest, as a frightened sheep 


Leave the blue sea, with pure white 


Flies the gray wolf 1 — yet l.ove did 


arms extended 


overcome me. 


To the dry shore ; and in my cave's 


So long ; — I loved thae, maiden, first 


recess, 


of all 


Thou shalt be gladder for the noonlight 


When down the hills (my mother fast 


ended, — 


beside thee) 


For here be Laurels, spiral cypresses. 


I saw thee stray to pluck the summer- 


Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves 


fall 


enfold 


Of hyacinth bells, and went myself to 


Most luscious grapes ; and here is water 


guide thee : 


cold, 


And since my eyes have seen thee, they 


The wooded .ittna pour.s down 


can leave thee 


through the trees 


No more, from that day's light 1 But 


From the white snows, — which gods 


thou . . by Zeus, 


were scarce too bold 


Thou wilt not care for that to let it 


To drink in turn with nectar. Who 


grieve thee ! 


with these 


I know thee, fair one, why thou 


Would choose the salt wave of the 


springest loose 


lukewarm seas? 


From my arm round thee. Why? I 


Nay, look on me ? If I am hairy and 


tell thee, Dear 1 


rough, 


One shaggy eyebrow draws itssmudg- 


I have an oak's heart in me ; there's a 


ing road 


fire 


Straight through my ample front, from 


In these gray ashes which burns hot 


ear to ear,— 


enough ; 


One eye rolls tmderneath ; and yawn- 


And when I burn for //;/■£-, I grudge 


ing, broad 


the pyre 


Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too 


No fuel . . not my soul, nor this one 


near. 


eye,— 


Yet . . lio, ho ! — /, — whatever I ap- 


Most precious thing I have, because 


pear, — 


thereby 


Do feed a thousand oxen 1 When I 


I see thee, Fairest 1 Out, alas 1 I wish 


have done. 


My mother had borne me finned like r. 


I milk the cows, and drink the milk 


fish. 


that's best 1 


That I might plunge down in the ocean 


I lack no cheese, while summer keeps 


near thee. 


the sun ; 


And kiss thy glittering hand between 


And after, in the cold, it's ready prest ! 


the weeds. 


And then, I know to sing, as there is 


If still thy face were turned ; and I 


none 


would bear thee 


Of all the Cyclops can, . . a song of 


Each lily white, and poppy fair that 


thee. 


bleeds 


Sweet apple of my soul, on love's fair 


Its red heart down its leaves 1 — one gift. 


tree. 


for hours 


And of myself who love thee . . till 


Of summer, . . one, for winter ; since. 


the West 


to cheer thee. 


Forgets the light, and all but I have rest. 


I could not bring at nnce all kinds of 


I feed for thee, besides, eleven ^air does, 


flowers. 



TKANSLA TIONS. 



155 



Even now, girl, now, I fain would learn 
to swim, 
If stranger in a ship sailed nigh, I 

wis, — 
That I may know how sweet a thing 
it is 
To live down with you in the Deep and 

Dim ! 
Come up, O Galatea, from the ocean. 

And having come, forget again to go ! 
As I, who sing out here my heart's 
emotion, 
Could sit forever. Come up from 
below ! 
Come, keep my flocks beside me, milk 
my kine, — 
Come, press my cheese, distrain my 
whey and curd ! 
Ah, mother! she alone . . that mother 
of mine . . 
Did wrong me sore ! I blame her ! — 
Not a word 
Of kindly intercession did she address 
Thine ear with for my sake ; and ne'er- 
theless 
She saw me wasting, wasting, day by 

day ! 
Both head and feet were aching, I 
will say, 
All sick for grief, as I myself was sick ! 
O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither hast thou 

sent 
Thy sonl on fluttering wings ? If thou 
wert bent 
On turning bowls, or pulling green and 

thick 
The sprouts to give thy lambkins, — thou 
wouldst make thee 
A wiser Cyclops than for what we 
take thee. 
Milk dry the present ! Why pursue too 

quick 
That future which is fugitive aright ? 
Thy Galatea thou .shalt haply find, — 
Or else a maiden fairer and more 
kind ; 
For many girls do call me through the 
night. 
And, as theyall, do laugh out silver- 

/, too, am something m the world, I 
see ! ' 



While thus the Cyclops love and 
lambs did fold. 
Ease came with song, he could not buy 
with gold. 



PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS. 

PSYCHE GAZING ON CUPID. 

{Mctamarph., Lib. IV.) 

Then Psyche, weak in body and soul, 
put on 
. The cruelty of Fate, in place of 

strength : 
She raised the lamp to see what should 
be done, 
And seized the steel, and was a man 
at length 
In courage, though a woman ! Yes, but 
when 
The light fell on the bed whereby she 
stood 
To view the 'beast' that lay there, -^ 
certes, then. 
She saw the gentlest, sweetest be.xsi 
in wood — • 
Even Cupid's self, the beauteous god I 
more beauteous 
For that sweet sleep across his eyelidi 
dim ! 
The light, the lady carried as she 
viewed. 
Did blush for pleasure as it lighted 
him. 
The dagger trembled from its aim nn- 
dutious ; 
And she . . oh, she — amazed and sou\ 
distraught. 
And fainting in her whiteness like a 
veil. 
Slid down upon her knees, and, shud- 
dering thought 
To hide — though in her heart- the dag- 
ger pale ! 
She would have done it, but her hands 
did fail 
To hold the guilty .steel, they shiv- 
ered so, — 
,\nd feeble, exhausted, unawares she 
took 



156 



TKAXSLA TIOXS. 



To gazing on the god, — till, look by 
look 
Her eyes with larger life did fill and 
glow. 
She saw his golden head alight with 
curls, — 
She might have guessed their bright- 
ness in the dark 
By that ambrosial smell of heavenly 
mark ! 
She saw the mi!ky brow, more pure 
than pearls, 
The purple of the cheeks, divinely 
sundered 
Ijy the globed ringlets, as they glided 

free. 
Some back, some forwards, — all so ra-, 
diantly. 
That, as she watched them there, she 

never wondered 
To see the lamplight, where it touched 
them, tremble ; 
On the god's shoulders, too, she marked 
his wings 
Shine faintly at the edges and resem- 
ble 
A flower that's near to blow. The poet 
sings 
And lover sighs, that Love is fugi- 
tive ; 
And certes, though these pinions lay re- 
posing. 
The feathers on them seemed to .stir 
and live 
As if by instinct closing and unclosing. 
INIeantime the god's fair body slum- 
bered deep. 
All worthy of Venus, in his shining 

sleep ; 
While at the bed's foot lay the quiv- 
er, bow, 
And darts, — his arms of godhead. 
Psyche gazed 
With eyes that drank the wonders in, 
— said — ' Lo, 
Be these my husb.xnd's arms?' — and 
straightway raised 
An arrow from the quiver-case, and 
tried 
Its point against her finger, — trembling 
till 
She pushed it in too deeply (foolish 
bride !) 



And made her blood .some dcwdrops 

small distil. 
And learnt to love Love, of her own 

goodwill. 

I'SVCHE WAFTKD BV 2EPHVKUS. 

[Metamorph., Lib. IV.) 

While Psyche wept upon the rock for- 
saken. 
Alone, despairing, dreading, — grad- 
ually 
By Zephyrus .she was enwrapt and ta- 
ken 
Still trembling, — like the lilies planted 
high,- 
Through all her fair white limbs. • Her 
vesture spread. 
Her very bosom eddying with sur- 
prise,^ 
He drew her slowly from the mountain- 
head, 
And bore her down the valleys with 
wet eyes. 
And laid her in the lap of a green dell 
As soft with gra-ss and flowers as any 
nest, 
With trees beside her, and a limpid 
well : 
Yet Love was not far off from all that 
Rest. 

I'VSCHE AND l'.\N. 

[Metamorph., Lib. V.) 

The gentle River, in her Cupid's honor. 
Because he used to warm the very 
wave. 
Did ripple aside, instead of closing on 
her. 
And cast up Psyche, with a refluence 
brave. 
Upon the flowery bank, — all sad and 

sinning. 
Then Pan, the rural god, by chance was 
leaning 
Along the brow of th.^ waters as they 

wound. 
Kissing the reed-nyr.ipU tiU she sank 
to the ground, 



t::ansla tioxs. 



And tenching. without knowledge of the 
meanmg, 
To run her voice in music after his 
Down many a shifting note ; (the goats 
around. 
In wandering pasture and most leap- 
ing bliss, 
Drawn on to crop the river's flowery 

hair.) 
And as the hoary god beheld her there. 
The poor, worn, fainting Psyche !^ 

knowing all 
The grief she suffered, he did gently 
call 
Her name, and softly comfort her des- 
pair ; — 

' O wise, fair 'kady, I am rough and 
rude. 
And yet experienced through my Aveary 
age ! 
And if I read aright, as soothsayer 
should. 
Thy faltering steps of heavy pilgrim- 
age, 
Thy paleness, deep as the snow we 
cannot see 
The roses through, — thy sighs of quick 

returning. 
Thine eyes that seem, themselves, two 
souls in mourning, — 
Thoulovest, girl, too well, and bitter- 
ly! 
.But hear me : rush no more to a head- 
long fall : 
Seek no more deaths ! leave wail, lay 
sorrow down. 
And pray the sovran god ; and use 
withal 
Such prayer as best may suit a tender 
youth. 
Well-plea.sed to bend to flatteries from 
mouth. 
And feel them stir the myrtle of his 
crown.' 



— So spake the shepherd-god ; and 
answer none 
Gave Psyche in return : but silently 
She did him homage with a bended 
knee. 
And took the onward path. — 



PSYCHE PROPITIATING CERES. 

(Metamorph., Lib. Vl.! 
Then mother Ceres from afar beheld 

her, 
While Psyche touched, with reverent 

fingers meek. 
The temple's scythes ; and^with a cry 

compelled her : 
' O wretched Psyche, Venus roams to 

seek 
Thy wandering footsteps round the 

weary earth. 
Anxious and maddened, and adjures 

thee forth 
To accept the imputed pang, and lot 

her wreak 
Full vengeance with full force of deity ! 
Yet thoii, forsooth, art in my temple 

here. 
Touching my scythes, assuming my 

degree. 
And daring to have thoughts that are 

not fear !' 
— But Psyche clung to her feet, and as 

they moved 
Rained tears along their track, tear 

dropped on tear. 
And drew the dust on in her trailing 

locks, 
And still, with passionate prayer, the 

charge disproved : — 
' Now, by thy right hand's gathering 

from the shocks 
Of golden corn, — and by thy gladsome 

rites 
Of harvest. — and thy consecrated sights 
Shut safe and mute in chests, — and by 

the course 
Of thy slave-dragons, — and the driving 

force 
Of ploughs along Sicilian glebes pro- 
found.— 
By thy swift chariot, — by thy steadfast 

ground. — 
By all those nuptial torches that departed 
With thy lost daughter, — and by those 

that shone 
Back with her. when she came again 

glad-hearted. — ■ 
And by all other mysteries which arc 

done 
In sile.icc at E'eusis, — I beseech thee. 



158 



TRANSLA T/OiVS. 



O Cere'^, take some pity, and abstain 
From giving to my soul extremer pain 
Who am the wretched Psyche ! Let 
me teach thee 
A little mercy, and have thy leave to 
spond 
A few days only in thy garnered corn. 
Until that wrathful goddess, at the 
end. 
Shall feel her hate grow mild, the longer 

bourne, — 
Or till, alas ! — this faintness at my breast 
Pass from me, and my spirit apprehend 
From life-long woe a breath-time hour 

of rest !' 
— But Ceres answered, ' I am moved 
indeed 
By prayers so moist with tears,and 
would defend 
The poor beseecher from more utter 
need : 
But where old oaths, anterior ties, 

commend, 
I cannot fail to a sister, lie to a friend. 
As Venus is to >/ic\ Depart with speed !' 



I'SVCHK AND THE EAGI.R. 
(Metamirp:i., Lib. V(.) 

But sovran Jove's rapacious bird, the 

regal 
High percher on the lightning, the great 

eagle 
Drove down with rushing wings ; and, 

— thinking how. 
By Cupid's help, he bore from Ida's brow 
A cup-boy for his master, — he inclined 
'lo yield, in just return, an influence 

kind ; 
The god being honored in his lady's woe. 
And thus the bird wheeled downward 

from the track, 
Gods follow gods In, to the level low 
Of that poor face of Psyche left in wrack 
— ' Now fie, thou simple girl !' the Bird 

began ; 
' For if thou think to steal and carry back 
A drop of holiest stream that ever ran, 
No simpler thought, methinks, were 

found in man. 
What ! knowest thou not these Stygian 

waters be 



Most holy, even to Jove? that a.s, on 

earth. 
Men swear by gods, and by the thun- 
der's worth, 
Even so the heavenly gods do utter forth 
Their oaths by Sty.\'s flowing majesty ? 
And yet, one little urnful, 1 agree 
To grant thy need !' Whereat, all 

hastily. 
He takes it, fills it from the willing wave. 
And bears it in his beak, incarnadined 
By the last Titan-prey he screamed to 

have ; 
And, striking calmly out, against the 

wind, 
Vast wings on each side, — there, where 

Psyche stands. 
He drops the urn down in her lifted 

hands. 

I'SVCHE AND CERBERUS. 
(Melamorph., Lib. VI.) 

A MIGHTY Dog with three colos.sal necks. 
And heads in grand proportion ; vast 
as fear. 

With jaws that bark the thunder out 
that breaks 
In most innocuous dread for ghosts 
anear. 

Who are safe in death from sorrow : he 
reclines 

Across the threshold of queen Proser- 
pine's 

Dark-sweeping halls, and, there, fur 
Pluto's spouse. 

Doth guard the entrance of the empty 
house. 

When Psyche threw the cake to him, 
once amain 

He howled up wildly from his hunger- 
pain, 

And was still, after. — 

I'SVCHE AND PROSEKl'INE. 

(M-lanwrph., Lib. VI.) 

Then Psyche entered in to Proserpine 
In the dark house, and straightway did 

decline 
With meek denial the lu.Kurious seat. 
The liberal board for welcome stran- 
gers spread, 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



159 



Bat sate down lowly Tit tlif! dark queen's 
feet, 
And told her talc, and brake her oaten 
bread. 
And when she had given the pyx in 
humble duty, 
And told how Venus did entreat the 
queen 
To fill it up with only one day's beauty 
She used in Hades, star-bright and 
serene. 
To beautify the Cyprian, who had been 
All spoilt with grief in nursing her 
sick boy, — 
Then Proserpine, in malice and in joy, 
Smiled in the shade, and took the pyx, 

and put 
A secret in it ; and so, filled and shut. 
Gave it again to Pysche. Could she 

tell 
It held no beauty, but a dream of hell 1 



PSYCHE AND VEN'U . 

{Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 

And Psyche brought to Venus what was 

sent 
Ily Pluto's spouse ; the paler, that she 

went 
So low to seek it, down the dark descent. 

MEF.CURY CARRIES PSYCHE TO OLYMPUS. 

{Metamorph., Lib. VL) 

Then Jove commanded the god Mer- 
cury 

To float up Psyche from the earth. And 
she 

Sprang at the first word, as the fountain 
springs, 

And shot up bright and rusthng through 
his wings. 

MARRIAGE OF PSYCHE AND CUPID. 

[Metainorph., Lib. VI.) 

And Jove's right-hand approached the 

ambrosial bowl 
To Pysche's lips, that scarce dared 

yet to smile. — 
'Drink, O my daughter, and acquaint 

thy soul 



With deathless uses, and be glad the 
while 1 
No more shall Cupid leave thy lovely 
side ; 
Thy marriage-joy begins for never- 
ending.' 
While yet he spake, — the nuptial feast 
supplied, — 
The bridegroom on the festive couch 
was bending 
O'er Psyche in his bosom — Jove, the 
same 
On Juno, and the other deities. 
Alike ranged round. The rural cup-boy 
came 
And poured Jove's nectar out with 
.shining eyes. 
While Bacchus, ici the others, did as 
much. 
And Vulcan spread the meal ; and all 

the Hours, 
Made all things purple with a sprinkle 
of flowers. 
Or roses chiefly, not to say the touch 
Of their sweet iir.gers ; and the 
Graces glided 
Their balm around, r.iid the Muses, 
through the air 
Struck out clear voices, which were 
still divided 
By that divine-;'' rcr.^ Apollo there 
Intoned to tiis lute ; while Aphrodite 
fair 
Did float her beauty along the tune, and 
play 
The notes right with her feet. And 
thus, the day 
Through every perfect mood of joy was 
carried. 
The Muses sang their chorus ; Satyrus 
Did blow his pipes ; Pan touched his 
reed ; — and thus 
At last were Cupid and Psyche married. 



PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS. 

HOW BACCHUS FINDS ARIADNE SLEEPING. 

[Dionysiaca, Lib. XLVII.) 

When Bacchus first beheld the deso- 
late 
And sleeping Ariadne, wonder straight 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Was mixed with love in hi? great golden 

eyes ; 
He turned to his Bacchantes in surprise, 
And said with guarded voice, — ' Hush ! 

stril<e no more 
Your brazen cymbals ; keep those voices 

still 
Of voice and pipe ; and since ye stand 

before 
Queen Cypris, let her slumbec as she 

will ! 
And yet the cestus is not here in proof. 
A Grace, perhaps, whom sleep has sto- 
len aloof : 
In which case, as morning shines in 

view. 
Wake this Aglaia ! — yet in Naxos, who 
Would veil a Grace so? Hush! And 

if that she 
Were Hebe, which of all the gnds can 

be 
The pourer-out of wine ? or if we think 
She's like the shining moon by ocean's 

brink. 
The guide of herds, — why, could she 

sleep without 
Endymion's breath on her cheek ? or if 

I doubt 
Of silver- footed Thetis, used to tread 
These shores, — even she (ui reverence 

be it said) 
Has no such rosy beauty to dress deep 
With the blue waves. The Loxian 

goddess might 
Repose so from her hunting-toil aright 
Beside the sea, since toil gives birtJi to 

sleep, 
But who would find her with her tunic 

loose. 
Thus? Stand off, Thracian ! stand off! 

Do not leap. 
Not this way ! Leave that piping, since 

I choose, 
O dearest Pan, and let Athene rest ! 
And yet if she Ije Pallas . . truly 

guessed . . 
Her lance is — where ? her helm and jegis 
—where?' 
— As Bacchus closed, the miserable 

Fair 
••Vwoke at last, sprang upward from the 

sands, 
And gazing wild on that wild throng 

tliat stands 



Around, around her, and no Theseus 

there ! — 
Her voice went moaning over shore and 

sea. 
Beside the halcyon's cry ; she called 

her love ; 
She named her hero, and raged mad- 
deningly 
Against the brine of waters ; and 

above. 
Sought the ship's track and cursed the 

hours she slept ; 
And still the chiefest execration swept 
Against queen Paphia, mother of the 

ocean ; 
And cursed and prayed by times in her 

emotion 
The winds all round. 



Her grief did make her glorious; her 

despair 
Adorned her with its weight. Poor 

wailing child ! 
She looked like Venus when the goddess 

smiled 
At liberty of godship, debonair ; 
Poor Ariadne ! and her eyelids fair 
Hid looks beneath them lent her by 

Persuasion 
And every Grace, with tears of Love's 

own passion. 
She wept long ; then she spake : — 

' Sweet sleep did come 
While sweetest 1 heseus went. O, glad 

and dumb, 
I wish he had left me still ! for in my 

sleep 
I saw his Athens, and did gladly keep 
My new bride-state within my Theseus' 

hall ; 
And heard the pomp of Ilynicn, and 

the call 
Of ' Ariadne, Ariadne,' sung 
In choral joy ; and there, with joy I 

hung 
Spring-blossoms round love's altar I — ay, 

and wore 
A wreath myself; and felt him ever- 
more. 
Oh, evermore beside me, with his 

mighty 
Grave head bowed down in prayer to 

Aphrodite 1 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Why, what sweet, sweet dream ! He 

went witli it, 
And left me here iinwedded where I 

sit ! 
Persuiision help me I The dark night 

did make me 
A brideship, the fair morning takes 

away ; 
My Love had left me when the Hour did 

wake me ; 
And while I dreamed of marriage, as 

I say, 
And blest it well, my blessed Theseus 

left me : 
And thns the sleep, 1 loved so, has be- 
reft me. 
Speak to me, rocks, and tell my grief 

to-day. 
Who stole my love of Athens ?'.... 

HOW BACCHUS COMFORTS ARIADN'B. 

{Dionysiaca, Lib. XLVIL) 

Then Bacchns' subtle speech her sorrow 

crossed : — 
' O maiden, dost thon mourn for liaving 

lost 
The false Athenian heart ? and dost thou 

still 
Take thought of Theseus, when thou 

may'st at will 
Have Bacchus for a husband ? Bacchus 

bright 
A god m place of mortal ! Yes, and 

though 
The mort.il youth be charming in thy 

sight. 
That man of Athens cannot strive be- 
low. 
In beauty and valor, with my deity ! 
Thou'lt tell me of the labyrinthine 

dweller. 
The fisrce man-bull, he slew : I pray 

thee, be. 
Fair Ariadne, the true deed's true 

teller, 
And mention thy clue's help! because, 

forsnoth. 
Thine armel Athenian hero had not 

found 
A power to fight on that prodigious 

ground. 
Unless a lady in her rosy youth 



Had lingered near him : not to speak 

the truth 
Too definitely out till names be known — 
Like Paphia's — -Love's— and Ariadne's 

own. 
Thou wilt not say that Athens can com- 
pare 
With /Ether, nor that Minos rules like 

Zeus, 
Nor yet that Gnossus has such golden 

air 
As high Olympus. Ha ! for noble use 
We came to Na.NOs I Love has well m- 

tended 
To change thy bridegroom ! Happy 

thou, defended 
From entering in thy Theseus' earthly 

hall, 
That thou mayst hear the laughters rise 

and fall 
Instead, where Bacchus rules ! Or wilt 

thou choose 
A still-surpassing glory ° — take it all, — 
A heavenly house, Kronion's self for 

kin, — 
A place where Cassiopca sits within 
Inferior light, for all her daughter's 

sake. 
Since Perseus, even amid the .stars, must 

take 
Andromeda in chains setherial I 
But /will wreathe ///?c, sweet, an as^ral 

crown. 
And as my tiueen and .spouse thou shalt 

be known — 
Mine, the crown-lover's !' Thus, at 

length, he proved 
His comfort on her ; and the maid wa> 

moved ; 
And casting Theseus' memory down the 

brine. 
She straight received the troth of l'.:. 

divine 
Fair Bacchus ; Love stood by to close 

the rite : 
The marriage-chorus struck up clear and 

light. 
Flowers sprouted fast about the chamljL-r 

green, 
And with spring-garlands on their 

heads, I ween. 
The Orchomenian dancers came along. 
And danced their rounds in Na.xos to 
the song. 



I 62 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



A Hamadryad sang a nuptial dit 
Kiglit shrilly : and a Naiad sate beside 
A tuuntani, with her bare foot shelving it, 
And hymned of Ariadne, beauteous 

bride, 
Whom thus the god of grapes had dei- 
fied. 
Ortygia sang out, louder than her wont. 
An ode which Phoebus gave her to be 

tried. 
And leapt in chorus, with her steadfast 

front. 
While prophet Love, the stars have 

called a brother, 
Burnt ni his crown, and twined in one 

another, 
His love-flower with the purple roses, 

given 
In type of that new crown assigned in 

heaven. 



PARAPHRASE ON HESIOD. 



BACCHUS AND ARIADNE. 

{Thcog., 947.) 

The golden-haired Bacchus did espouse 

'I'hat fau-est Ariadne, Minos' daughter, 

And made her wifehood blossom in the 

house ; 
Where such protective gifts Kronion 

brougnt her, 
Nor Death nor Age could find her 

when they sought her. 



PARAPHRASE ON EURIPIDES. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

( Troades, 853.) 

IjOVE, Love who once didst pass the 
DarJan portals. 
Because of Heavenly passion 1 
Who once didst lift up Troy m exidta- 

tion. 
To mingle in thy bond the high Immor- 
tals !— 
Love, turned from his own name 



To Zeus' shame. 
Can help no more all. 

And Eos' self, the fair, white-steeded 
morning, — 

Her light which blesses other lands, re- 
turn mg. 
Has changed to a gloomy pall ; 

She looked across the land with eyes of 
amber,^ 
She saw the city's fall, — 
She, who, in pure embraces. 

Had held there, in the hymeneal cham- 
ber. 

Her children's father, bright Tithonus 
old. 

Whom the four steeds with starry brows 
and paces 

Bore on, snatched upward, on the car of 
gold, 

And with him, all the land's full hope of 
joy! 

The love-charms of the gods are vain 
for Troy. 
NoTK. — Rendered after Mr. BurgeB'8 reinUiiM, 

in ooiiie rcBpects— not quite all. 



PARAPHRASES ON HOMER. 

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 
[Iliad, Lib. VI.) 

She rushed to meet him : the nurse fol- 
lowing 

Bore on her bosom the unsaddened 
child, 

A simple babe, prince Hector's well- 
loved son. 

Like a star shining when the world is 
dark. 

Scamandrius, Hector called him, but the 
rest 

Named him Astyanax, the city's prince, 

Because that Hector only, had saved 
Troy. 

He, when he saw his son, smiled silently : 

While, dropping tears, Andromache 
pressed on. 

And clung to his hand, and spake, and 
named his name. 

' Hector, my best one, — thine own noble- 
ness 



TRAXSLA T/OiVS. 



1G3 



Must needs undo thee. Pity liast thou 

none 
For this young child, and this most sad 

myself, 
Who soon shall be thy widow — since 

that soou 
The Greeks will slay thee in the general 

rush — 
And then, for me, what refuge, reft of 

thee. 
But to go graveward ? Then, no com- 
fort more 
Shall touch me, as in the old sad times 

thou know'st — 
Grief only — grief ! I have no father 

now. 
No mother mild ! Achilles the divine. 
He slew my father, sacked his lofty 

Thebes, 
Cilicia's populous city, and .slew its king, 
Eetion — father, did not .spoil the corse. 
Because the Greek revered him in his 

soul. 
But burnt the body with its dsedal arms, 
And poured the diLst out gently. Round 

that tomb 
The Oreads, daughters of the goat- 
nursed Zeus, 
Tripped in a ring, and planted their 

green elms. 
There were seven brothers with me in 

the house. 
Who all went down to Hades in one 

day, — 
''"or lie slew all, Achilles the divine. 
Famed for his swift feet, — slain among 

their herds 
Of cloven-footed bulls and flocking 

sheep ! 
My mother too, who queened it o'er the 

woods 
Of Hippopl.Tcia, he, with other spoil, 
Seized, — and, for golden ransom, freed 

too late, — 
Since, as she went home, arrowy Arte- 
mis 
Met her and slew her at my father's 

door. 
But — oh, my Hector, — thou art stdl to 

me 
F ither and mother ! — yes, and brother 

dear, 
O thou, who art my sweetest spouse 

beside ! 



Come now, and take me into pity ! 

Staj- 
r the town here with us ! Do not make 

thy child 
An orphan, nor a widow, thy poor wife I 
C dl up the people to the fig-tree, wheie 
The city is most accessible, the wall 
Most easy of assault ! — for thrice there- 

by 
Ihe boldest Greeks have mounted to 

the breach, — 
Both Aja.xes, the famed Idomenens 
Two sons of Atreus, and the noble one 
Of Tydeus, — whether taught by some 

wise seer. 
Or by their own souls prompted and 

inspired.' 

Great Hector answered : — ' Lady, for 

these things 
It is my part to care. And /fear most 
My Trojans, and their daughters, and 

their wives. 
Who through their long veils would 

glance scorn at me. 
If, coward-like, I .shunned the open war. 
Nor doth my own .sold prompt me to 

that e id ! 
I learnt to be a brave man constantly. 
And to fight foremo.st where my Irojans 

fight. 
And vindicate my father's glory and 

mine — 
Because I know, by instinct and my 

soul, 
The day comes that our sacred Troy 

must fall. 
And Priam and his people. Knowing 

which, 
I have no such grief for all my Trojan's 

sake. 
For Hecuba's, for Priam's, our old king. 
Not for my brothers', who so many and 

brave 
Shall bite the dust before our enemies, — 
As, sweet, for thee! — to think .some 

mailed Greek 
Shall lead thee weeping and deprive thy 

life 
Of the free sun-sight — that, when gone 

away 
To Argos. thou shalt throw the distaff 

there 
Not for thy uses — or shalt carry instead 



164 



TRANSLA riONS. 



Upon thy loathing brow, as heavy a 

doom. 
The water of Greek wells — Messeis' 

own, 
Or Hyperea's !— that some stander-by. 
Marking thy tears fall, shall say, 'This 

is she. 
The wife of that same Hector who 

fought best 
Of all the Trojans, when all fought for 

Troy — •' 
Ay ! — and, so speaking, shall renew thy 

pang 
That, reft of him so named, thoushouldst 

survive 
To a slave's life ! Cut earth shall hide 

my corse 
Ere that shriek sound, wherewith thou 

art dragged from Troy.' 

Thus Hector spake, and stretched his 

arms to his child. 
Against the nurse's breast, with childly 

cry. 
The boy clung back, and shunned his 

fither's face. 
And feared the glittering brass and 

wiving hair 
Of the high helmet, nodding horror 

down. 
The father smiled, the mother could not 

choose 
But smile too. Then he lifted from his 

brow 
The helm, and set it on the ground to 

shine : 
Then, kisse 1 his dear child — raised him 

with both arms, 
And thus invoked Zeus and the general 

gods :— 

'Zeus, and all godships ! grant this boy 

of mine 
To be the Trojans' help, as I myself,^ 
To live a brave life and rule well in 

Troy ! 
Till men shall say, 'The son exceeds 

the sire 
By a far glory.' Let him bring home 

spod 
Heroic, and make glad his mother's 

heart ' 

With which prayer, to his wife's e.\. 
te.ided arms 



I He gave the child ; and she received 

him straight 
To her bosom's fragrance — smiling up 

her tears. 
Hector gazed on her till his soul was 

moved : 
Then softly touched her with his hand 

and spake. 
'My best one — 'ware of passion and 

e.vcess 
In any fear. There's no man in the 

world 
Can send me to the grave apart from 

fate, — 
And no man . . Sweet, I tell thee . . 

can fly fate — 
No good nor bad man. Doom is self- 
fulfilled. 
But now, go home, and ply thy woman's 

ta.sk 
Of wheel and distaff! bid thy maidens 

haste 
Iheir occupation. War's a care for 

men — 
For all men born in Troy, and chief for 

me.' 

Thus spake the noble Hector, and re- 
sumed 

His crested helmet, while his spouse 
went home ; 

But as she went, still looked back 
lovingly. 

Dropping the tears from her reverted 
face. 

THE D.\UGHTERS OF P.\NDARUS. 

(Odyss., Lib. XX.) 

And so these daughters fair of Pandarus, 
The whirlwinds took. The gods had 

slain their kin : 
They were left orphans in their father'; 

house. 
And Aphrodite came to comfort them 
With incense, luscious honey, and fra- 
grant wme ; 
And Here gave them beauty of face and 

soul 
Beyond all women ; purest Artemis 
Endowed them with her stature and 

white grace ; 
And Pallas taught their hands to flash 
along 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



lOs 



Her famous looms. Then, bright with 
deity. 

Toward far Olympus, Aphrodite went 

To a-ik of Zeus (who has his thunder-joys 

And his full knowledge of man's min- 
gled fate) 

How best to crown those other gifts with 
love 

And worthy marriage : but, what time 
she went, 

The ravishing Harpies snatched the 
maids away. 

And gave them up, for all their loving 
eyes, 

To serve the Furies who hate constantly. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

So the storms bore the daughters of 
Pandarus out into thrall — 

The gods slew their parents ; the or- 
phans were left in the hall. 

And there came, to feed their young 
lives. Aphrodite divine. 

With the incense, the sweet-tasting 
honey, the sweet-smelling wine ; 

Here brought them her wit above wom- 
an's, and beauty of face : 

And pure .Artemis gave them her stat- 
ure, that form might have grace ; 

And Athene instructed their hands in 
her works of renown ; 

Then, afar to Olympus, divine Aphrodite 
moved on : 

To complete other gifts, by uniting each 
girl to a mate. 

She sought Zeus, who has joy in the 
thunder and knowledge of fate. 

Whether mortals have good chance or 
ill ! But the Harpies alate 

In tha storm came, and swept off the 
maidens, and gave them to wait. 

With that love in their eyes, on the 
Furies who constantly hate. 



PARAPHRASE ON ANACREON. 

ODE TO THE SWALLOW. 

Thou indeed, little Swallow, 
A sweet yearly comer. 
Art building a hollow 
New nest every summer. 



And straight dost depart 
Where no gazing can follow. 
Past Memphis, down Nile ! 
Ay ! but love all the while 
Builds his nest in my heart, 
Through the cold winter-weeks : 
And as one Love takes flight. 
Comes another, O Swallow, 
In an egg warm and white, 
And another is callow. 
And the large gaping beaks 
Chirp all day and all night : 
And the Loves who are older 
Help the young and the poor Loves, 
And the young Loves grown bolder 
Licrease by the score Loves — 
Why, what can be done? 
If a noise comes from one. 
Can I bear all this rout of a hundred 
and more Loves ? 



SONG OF THE ROSE. 

ATTRIBUTED TO SAPPHO. 

If Zeus chose us a King of the flowers 
in his mirth. 
He would call to the rose, and would 
royally crown it : 
For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the grace 
of the earth. 
Is the light of the plants that are 
growing upon it ! 
For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the eye of 
the flowers. 
Is the blush of the meadows that feel 
themselves fair, — 
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes 
through the bowers 
On pale lovers that sit in the glow un- 
aware. 
Ho, the rose breathes of love ! ho, the 

ro.se lifts the cup 
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for 
a guest ! 
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet 
leaves for the world 
Takes delight in the motion its petals 
keep up. 
As they laugh to the Wind as it laughs 
from the west. 

From Achilles Talius. 



THE FOURFOLD ASPECT. 



THE FOURFOLD ASPECT. 

When ye stood up in the house 

With your Httle childish feet, 
And m touchmg Life's first shows. 

First the touch of Love did meet, — 
Love and Nearness seeming one, 

By the heart-hght cast before. 
And, of all Beloveds, none 

Standing farther than the door — 
Not a name being dear to thought. 

With its owner beyond call. 
Nor a face, unless it brought 

Its own shadow to the wall. 
When the worst recorded change 

Was of apple dropt from bough. 
When love's sorrow seemed more 
strange 

Than love's treason can seem now ; 
Then, the Loving took you up 

Soft, upon their elder knees, — 
Telling why the statues droop 

Underneath the churchyard trees. 
And how ye must he beneath them 

Through the winters long and deep. 
Till the last trump overbreathe them. 

And ye smile out of your sleep . . . 
Oh ye lifted up your head, and it seemed 
as if they said 
A tale of fairy ships 

With a swan-wing for a sail ! — 
Oh, ye kissed their lovnig lips 

For the merry, merry tale ! — 
So carelessly ye thought upon the Dead. 



Soon ye read in solemn stories 

Of the men of long ago — 
Of the pale bewildering glories 

Shining farther than we know. 
Of the heroes with the laurel. 

Of the poets with the bay. 
Of the two worlds' earnest quarrel 

For that beauteous Helena. 
How Achilles at the portal 

Of the tent, heard footsteps nigh 
And his strong heart, half-immortal. 

Met the keitai with a cry, — 
How Ulysses left the sunlight 

For t'ne pale eidola race 
Blank and passive through the dun 
light. 

Staring blindly on his face ; 



How that true wife said to Pectus, 
With calm siniie and woi.r.clcd 
heart, 
'Sweet, It hurts not ! ' — how Admcti.s 

Saw his blessed one depart. 
How King Arthur proved his missiin. 

And Sir Rowland wound his horn. 
And at Sangreal's moony vision 
Swords did bristle round like corn 
Oh ! ye lifted up your head, and i» 
seemed the while ye read. 
That this death, then, must be found 
A Valhalla for the crowned — 
The heroic who prevail. 
None, be sure can enter in 
Far below a paladin 
Of a noble, noble tale ! — 
So awfully ye thought upon the Dead. 



Ay ! but soon ye woke up shrieking, — 

As a child that wakes at night 
From a dream of sisters speaking 

In a garden's summer-light, — 
That wakes, starting up and bounding, 

In a lonely, lonely bed. 
With a wall of darkness round him. 

Stifling black about his head ! — 
And the full sense of your mortal 

Rushed upon you deep and loud. 
And ye heard the thunder hurtle 

From the silence of the cloud — 
Funeral-torches at your gateway 

Threw a dreadful light within ; 
All things changed ! you rose np 
straightway 

And saluted Death and Sin. 
Since. — your outward man has rallied 

And your eye and voice grow n 
hold- 
Yet the Sphinx of Life stands pallid. 

With her saddest secret told. 
Happy pl-.ces have grown holy : 

If ye went where once ye went, 
Oply tears would fall down slowly. 

As at solemn sacrament : 
Merry books, once read for pastime. 

If ye dared to read again, 
Only memories of the last time 

Would swim darkly up the brain. 
Household names, which used to 
fl .tier 

I'lirough your laughter unawares, — 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. ' 



167 



God's Divinest ye could utter 

With less trembling in your prayers ! 
Ye have drcpt adown your head, and it 
seems as if ye tread 

On your own hearts in the path 

Ye are called to in His wrath,' — 

And your prayers go up in wail ! 

— ' Dost Thou see, then, all our loss, 

O Thou agonized on cross '? 

Art Thou reading all its tale ? 
So, mournfully ye think, upon the Dead- 



Pray, pray, ihoti who also weepest. 

And the drops will slacken so ; 
Weep, weep : — and the watch thou 
keepest. 

With a quicker count will go. 
Think : — the shadow on the dial 

For the nature most undone, 
Marks the passing of the trial, 

Proves the presence of the sun : 
l-ook, look up, in starry passion. 

To the throne above the spheres, — 



Learn : the spirit's gravitation 

Still must differ from the tear's. 
Hope : with all the strength thou 
usest 

In embracing thy despair : 
Love : the earthly love thou losest 

Shall return to thee more fair. 
Work : make clear the forest-tangles 

Of the wildest stranger-land : 
Trust ; the blessed deathly angels 

Whisper, ' Sabbath hours at h^nd !' 
By the heart's wound when most gory 

By the longest agony. 
Smile ! — Behold, in sudden glory 

The Tr.^nsfigured smiles on thee ! 
And ye lifted up your head, and it 
seemed as if He said, 
' My Beloved, is t so'? 
Have ye tasted of my wo? 
Of my heaven ye shall not fail !' — 
He stands brightly where the shade is, 
With the keys of Death and Hades, 
And there ends the mournful tale : — 
So hopefully ye thii.k upon the Dead. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



SCENE— 7%^ outer shie of the gate of 
Eden shut fast -<vith cloud, from 
the depth of which re^wlves the 
siuord of fire self-moved. Ad.\m 
and Eve are seeti in the distance, 
flying along the glare. 

Lucifer, alone. 
Rejoice in the clefts of Gehenna. 

My e.xiled, my host ! 
Earth has e.xiles as hopeless as when a 

Heaven's empire was lost. 
Through the neams of her shaken foun- 
dations. 
Smoke up in great joy ! 
With the smoke of your fierce exulta- 
tions 
Deform and destroy ! 
Smoke up with your lurid revenges. 

And darken the fac. 
Of the white hepvefs^ and taunt them 
with change". 



From glory and grace. 
We, in falling, while destiny strangles. 

Pull down with us all. 
Let them look to the rest of their angels I 

Who's safe from a fall '? 
He saves not. Where's Adam ? Can 
pardon 

Requicken that sod ? 
Unkinged is the King of the Carden, 

The image of God. 
Other exiles are cas^t out of Eden, — 

More curse has been hurled. 
Come up, O my locusts, and feed in 

The green of the world. 
Come up ! we have conq' ired by evil. 

Good reigns not alone 
/prevail now, and, ang.l or devil, 

Inherif •= throne. 

[/« sudden apparition a ivntcli of i'f- 
nterable angels, rank alnntc rank, 
slopes up from around the gate te 



A DRAMA OF EXILE.. 



the zenith. The angel Gabriel de- 
scends. \ 

Lucifer. Hail Gabriel, the keeper of 
the gate ! 
Now that the fruit is plucked, prince 

Gabriel, 
I hold that Eden is impregnable 
Under thy keeping. 

Gabriel. Angel of the sin. 

Such as thou standest, — pale in the drear 

light 
Which rounds the rebel's work with 

Maker's wrath, = — 
Thou shalt be an Idea to all souls ; 
A monumental melancholy gloom 
Seen down all ages ; whence to mark 

despair 
And measure out the distances from 

good ! 
Go from us straightway. 

Lucifer. Wherefore ? 

Gabriel. Lucifer, 

Thy last step in this place trod sorrow up. 
Recoil before that sorrow, if not this 
sword. 
I^ucifer. Angels are in the world — 
wherefore not 1 ? 
Exiles are in the world — wherefore not I? 
The cursed are in the world — wherefore 
not I ? 
Gabriel. Depart. 

Lucifer. And where's the logic of 
'depart?' 
Our lady Eve had half been satisfied 
To obey her Maker, if I had not learnt 
To fi.v my postulate better. Dost thou 

dream 
Of guarding some monopoly in heaven 
Instead of earth ? Why I can dream 

with thee 
To the length of thy wings 

Gabriel. I do not dream. 

This is not Heaven, even in a dream, 

nor caitii. 
As earth was once, — first breathed 

among the stars, 
Articulate glory from the mouth divine. 
To which the myriad spheres thrilled 

audibly 
Touched like a lute-string, — and the sons 

of God 
Said AMEN, singing it. I know that this 



Is earth not new created but new 
cursed — 

This, Eden's gate not opened but built up 

With a final cloud of sunset. Do I 
dream V 

Alas, not so ! this is the Eden lost 

By Lucifer the serpent ! this the sword 

iThis sword alive with justice and with 
fire !) 

That smote upon the forehead, Lucifer 

The angel ! Wherefore, angel, go ... . 
depart — 

Enough is sinned and suffered. 
Lucifer. By no means. 

Here's a brave earth to sin and sufler on ! 

it holds fast still — it cracks not under 
curse ; 

It holds like mine immortal. Presently 

We'll sow it thick enough with graves as 
green 

Or greener, certes, than its knowledge- 
tree — 

We'll have the cypressforthe tree of life. 

More eminent for shadow — for the rest 

We'll build it dark with towns and pyr- 
amids. 

And temples, if it please you : — we'll 
have feasts 

And funerals also, merrymakes and war?. 

Till blood and wine shall mix and run 
along 

Right o'er the edges. And, good Ga- 
briel, 

(Ye like that word in Heaven ! [/ too 
have strength — 

Strength to beliold Him and not wor- 
ship Him ; 

Strength to fall from Him and not cry 
on Him ; 

Strength to be in the universe and yet 

Neither God nor his servant. The red 
sign 

Burnt on my forehead, which you taunt 
me with. 

Is God's sign that it bows not unto God ; 

The potter's mark upon his work, to show 

It rings well to the striker. I and the 
earth 

Can bear more curse. 

Gabriel. O miserable earth, 

ruined angel I 

Lucifer. AVell ! and if it be, 

1 CHOSE this ruin : I elected it 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



169 



Of my will, not of service. What I do, 
I do volitient, tiot obedient, 
And overtop thy crown with my despair. 
My sorrow crowns me. Get thee back 

to Heaven ; 
And leave me to the earth, which is 

mine own 
In v'rtue of her ruin, as I hers 
In virtue of my revolt ! turn those from 

both 
That bright, impassive, passive angel- 
hood ; 
And spare to read us backward any more 
Of the spent hallelujahs. 

Gabriel. Spirit of scorn ! 

I might say, of imreason ! I might say. 
That who despairs, acts ; that who acts, 

connives 
With God's relations set in time and 

sp.ice ; 
That who elects, assumes a something 

good 
Which God made possible ; that who 

lives, obeys 
The law of a Life-maker .... 

Lucifer. L;t it pass ! 

No more, thou Gabriel ! What if I 

stand up 
And strike my brow against the crys- 

taline 
Roofing the creatures, — shall I say for 

ihat. 
My stature is too high for me to stand, — 
Henceforward I must sit? Sit thou. 
GabrieL 'I kneel. 

Lucifer. A heavenly answer. Get 

thee to thy Heaven, 
And leave my earth to me. 

GabrieL Through Heaven and earth 
God's will moves freely ; and I follow it. 
As colour follows light. He overflows 
The firmamental walls with deity. 
Therefore with love ; His lightnings go 

abroad. 
His pity may do so ; His angels must 
Whene'er He gives them charges. 

Lucifer. Verily, 

I and my demons — who are spirits of 

scorn — 
Might hold this charge of standing with 

a sword 
'Twi.\t man and his inheritance, as well 
As the benignest angel of you all. 



GabrieL Thou speakest in the shad- 

dow of thy change. 
If thou hadst gazed upon the face of God 
This mornmg for a moment, thou hadst 

known 
That only pity can fitly chastise. 
While hate avenges. 

Lucifer. As it is, I know 
Something of pity. When I reeled in 

Heaven, 
And my sword grew too heavy for my 

grasp. 
Stabbing through matter which it could 

not pierce 
So much as the first .shell of, — toward 

the throne ; 
When I fell back, down, — staring up .is 

Ifell,-- 
The lightnings holding open my scathed 

lids. 
And thought of the infinite of God 
Hurled after to precipitate desiJent ; 
When countless angel faces still and 

stern 
Pressed out upon me from the • level 

heavens, 
Adown the abysmal spaces : and I fell 
Trampled down by your stillness, and 

struck blind 
By the sight within your eyes ; — 'twas 

then I knew 
How ye could pity, my kind angel- 
hood ! 
GabrieL Alas, discrowned one, by 

the truth in me 
Which God keeps in me, I would give 

away 
All, — save that truth and His love keep- 
ing it,— 
To lead thee home again into the kght. 
And hear thy voice chant with the morn- 
ing stars ; 
When their rays tremble round them 

with much .song 
Sung in more gladness ! 

Lucifer. Sing, my morning star I 

Last beautiful — last heavenly — that I 

loved ! 
If I could drench thy golden locks with 

tears. 
What were it to this angel ? 

GabrieL What love is ! 

And now I have named God. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Luci/er. Yet Gabriel 

By tlie lie in me which I keep myself 

Thou'rt a false swearer. Were It oth- 
erwise. 

What dost thou here, vouchsafing tender 
thoughts 

To that earth-angel or earth-demon — 
which. 

Thou and I have not solved the prob- 
lem yet 

Enough to argue, — that fallen Adam 
there, — 

That red-clay and a breath ! who must, 
forsooth. 

Live in a new apocalypse of sense, 

With beauty and music wavmg in his 
trees 

And running in his rivers to make glad 

His soul made ptr.'ect; is it not for hope, 

A hope within thee deeper than thy 
truth, 

Of finally conducting him and his 

To fill the vacant thrones of me and 
mine, 

Which affront heaven with their vacu- 
ity ? 
Gabriel. Angel, there are no vacant 
thrones in Heaven 

To suit thv empty words. Glory and 
life 

Fulfil their own depletions : and if God 

Sighed you far from Him, His next 
breath drew in 

A compensative splendour up the vast. 

Flushing the starry arteries ! 

Luci/er. With a change ! 

So let the vacant thrones and gardens 
too 

Fill as may please you ! — and be piti- 
ful. 

As ye translate that word, to the de- 
throned 

And exiled, man or angel. The fact 
stands, 

That I, the rebel, the -cast out and 
down. 

Ant here, and will not go ; while there, 
along 

The light to which ye flash the desert out 

Flies your adopted Adam ! your red 
clay 

In two kinds, both being flawed. Why, 
what is this ? 



Whose work is this? Whose hand was 

in the work ? 
Against whose hand ? In this last strife, 

methinks, 
I am not a fallen angel ! 

Gabriel. Dost thou kr.uw 

Aught of those exiles? 

Luciftr. Ay : 1 know they have fled 
Silent all day along the wilderness : 
1 know they wear for burdens on their 

backs, 
The thbught of a shut gate of Paradise, 
And faces of the marshalled cherubim 
Shining against, not for them ! and I 

know 
They dare not look in one another's face. 
As if each were a cherub I 

Gabriel. Dost thou know 

Aught of iheir future ? 

Lucifer. Only as much as this : 

That evil will increase and multiply 
Without a benediction. 

Gabriel. Nothing mere ? 

Lucifer. Why so the angels taunt! 

What should be more ? 
Gabriel. God is more. 
Lztcifer. Proving what ? 

Gabriel. That he is God, 

And capable of saving. Lucifer, 
1 charge thee by the solitude He kept 
Ere he created, — leave the earth to 
God ! 
Lucifer. My foot is on the earth, 

firm as my sin ! 
Gabriel. I charge thee by the mem- 
ory of Heaven 
Ere any sin was done, — leave earth to 
God ! 
Lucifer. My sin is on the earth, to 

reign thereon. 
Gabriel. I charge thee by the choral 
song we sang 
When up against the white shore cf our 

feet. 
The depths of the creation swelled and 

brake, — 
And the new worlds, the beaded foam 

and flower 
Of all that coil, roared or.tward i;.;o 

space 
On thunder-edges, — leave the earth to 
God. 
Lucifer. My woe is on the earth, to 
curse thereby. 



A DKAAfA OF EXILE. 



i7t 



Cahricl. 1 charge thee by that 

mournful morning star 
Which tremliles .... 

Lucifer. Enough spoken. As the 

pine 
In norland forest, drops its weight of 

snows 
By a night's growth, so, growing to- 
ward my ends, 
I drop thy counsels. Farewell, Gabriel I 
Watch out thy service ; I achieve my 

will. 
And peradventure in the after years, 
V/hen thoughtful men shall bend their 

spacious brows 
Upon the storm and strife seen every- 
where. 
To ruffle their smooth manhood and 

break up 
With kind lights of intermittent hope 
Their human fear and wrong, — they 

may discern 
The heart of a lost angel in the earth. 



CHORUS OF EDEN SPIRITS, 

{Chanting from Paradise, while 
Adam and Eve fly acrjss the tword- 
glare.) 

Harken, oh harken ! let your souls be- 
hind you 
Turn, gently moved ! 
Our voices fc;el along the Dread to find 
you, 
O lost, beloved I 
Through the thick-shielded and strong- 
marshalled angels. 
They press and pierce : 
Our requiems follow fast on our evan- 
gels, — 
Voice throbs in verse ! 
We are but orphaned spirits left in 
Eden, 
A time ago — 
God gave us golden cups : and we were 
bidden 
To feed you .so ! 
But now our right hand hath no cup 
remaining. 
No work to do ; 
The mystic hydromel is spilt and 
staining 



The whole earth through : 
Most ineradicable stains for .showing 

(Not interfused 1) 
I'hat brighter colours were the World's 
foregoing. 
Than shall be used. 
Harken, oh, oh harken I ye shall harken 
surely 
For years and years. 
The noise beside yovi, dripping coldly, 
purely. 
Of spirits' tears I 
The yearning to a beautiful denied you, 

Shall strain your powers : 
Ideal sweetnesses shall over-glide you. 

Resumed from ours 1 
In all your music our pathetic minor 

Your ears shall cross ; 
And all good gifts shall mind you of 
diviner. 
With sense of loss I 
We shall be near you in your poet-lan- 
guors 
And wild extremes; 
What time yc ve.x the desert with vain 
angers. 
Or mock with dreams. 
And when upon you, weary after roam- 
ing, 
Death s seal Is put. 
By the foregone ye shall discern the 
coming. 
Through eyelids thut. 

Spirits of the trees. 

Hark I the Eden trees are stirring. 
Slow and solemn in your hearing I 
Oak and linden, palm and fir. 
Tamarisk and juniper. 
Each still throbbing in vibration 
Since that crowning of creation. 
When the God breath spake abroad, 
Let lis make man like to Cod I 
And the pine stood quivering 
As the awful word went by ; 
Like a vibrant music-string 
Stretched from mo;m tain-peak to sky 1 
And the platan did e.vpand 
Slow and gradual, 1 ranch and head 
And the cedar's strong black shade 
Fluttered brokenly and grand ! 
Grove and wood were swept aslant 
In emotion jubilant. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Voice of the sntnc, bid softer. 
Whicli divine impulsion cleaves 
In dim movements to the leaves 
Dropt and lifted, uropt and lifted 
In the sunlight greenly sifted, — 
In the sunlight and the moonlight 
Greenly sifted through the trees. 
Ever wave ths Eden trees 
In the nightlight and the noonlight, 
With a ruffling of green branches 
Shaded off to resonances ; 
Never stirred by rain or breeze 1 

Fare ye well, farewell I 
The sylvan sounds, no longer audible, 

Expire at Eden's door ! 

Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some murmur which ye 
heard before : 

Farewell 1 the trees of Eden 

Ye shall hear nevermore. 

River Spirits. 

Hark ! the flow of the four rivers- — 

Hark the flow ! 
How the silence round you shivers. 
While our voices through it go, 
Cold and clear. 

A softer voice. 
Think a little while ye hear. 

Of the banks 
Where the willows and the deer 
Croivd in intermmgled ranks, 
A^ if all would drink at once 
Where the living water runs! 
Of the fishes' golden edges 
Flashing in and out the sedges : 
Of the swan-, on silver thrones. 
Flouting dow 1 the winding streams 
With impassive eyes turned shore- 
ward. 
And a chant of undertones, — • 
And the lotoi leaning forward 
To help them into dreams. 
Fare y^ well, farewell ! 
!fhc river-sound;, no longer audible. 
Expire at Eden's door I 
E ich footstep of your treading 
Treads out some murmur which ye 
heard before : 
Firewell ! the streams of Eden, 
Yo shall hear iievcrmoro. 



Bird-Spirit. 

I am the nearest nightingale 

That singeth in Eden after you; 

And I am singmg loud and true. 

And sweet, — 1 do not fail ! 

I sit upon a cypress bough. 

Close to the gate ; and I fling my 

song 
Over the gate and through th-e mail 
Of the warden angels marshalled 
strong, — 
Over the gate and after you I 
And the warden angels let it pas,s. 
Because the poor brown bird, alas I 

Smgs in the garden sweet and true. 
And 1 build my song of high pure 
notes. 
Note over note, height over height. 
Till 1 strike the arcci of the Infinite ; 
And I bridge abysmal agonies 
With strong, clear calms of harmo- 
nies, — 
And something abides, and something 

floats. 
In the song which I sing after you : 
Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The creature-sounds, no longer audible, 
E.xpire at Eden's door ! 
Each footstep of your treading 
Treado out some cadence which ye 
heard before : 
Farewell ! the birds of Eden 
Ye shall hear nevermore. 

Fiower-Spirits. 

We linger, we linger. 

The last of the throng I 
Like the tones of a singer 

Who love; his own song 
We are sp r t-aromas 

Of bloisoi.i and bloom : 
We call your thoughts home as 

Ve breath::: our perfume ; 
To t'.ie amarnnth's splendor 

Afire on the slopes ; 
To the lily-bells tender, 

A:id grey lieliotropes ! 
To the poppy -plains keeping 

Such dream-breath and blee 
That the angels there stepping 

Grew whiter to see ! 
To the nook, set with moly, 

Vo jested one day in. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



173 



Till your smile waxed too holy 

And left your lips praying I 
To the rose in the bower-place, 

That dripped o'er you sleeping ; 
To the asphodel flower-place, 
Ye walked ankle deep in 1 
We pluck at your raiment. 

We stroke down your hair, 
We faint in our lament 
And pine into air. 

Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The Eden scents, no longer sensible. 
Expire at Eden's floor ! 
Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some fragrance which ye 
knew before : 

Farewell ! the flowers of Eden, 
Ye shall smell nevermore. 

There is silence. Adam and Y.w'E.Jly 
on, and ticver look back Only a 
colossal shadcnv, as of the dark An- 
gel passing quickly, is cast upon 
the sword-glare. 



SCENE — The extrevnty of the Sword - 
glare. 

Adatn. Pausing a moment on this 
outer edge 

Where the supernal sword-glare cuts in 
light 

The dark exterior desert, — hast thou 
strength. 

Beloved, to look behind us to the gate ? 
Eve. Have I not strength to look up 

to thy face? 
Adam. We need to be strong : yon 
spectacle of cloud 

Which seals the gate up to the final 
doom, 

lb God's seal manifest. There seem to 
lie 

A hundred thunders in it, dark and 
dead : 

The un molten lightnings vein it motion- 
less ; 

And outward from its depth, the self- 
moved sword 

Swings slow its awful gnomon of red 
hre [slow, 

From side to side, — in pendulous horrur 



Across the stagnant, ghastly glare 

thrown flat 
On the intermediate ground from that 

to this. 
The angelic hosts, the archangelic 

pomps. 
Thrones, dommations, princedoms, rank 

on rank. 
Rising sublimely to the feet of God. 
On either side and overhead the gate. 
Show like a glittering and sustained 

smoke 
Drawn to an apex. That their faces 

shine 
Betwixt the solemn claspings of their 

wings 
Clasped high to a silver point above their 

heads, — 
We only guess from hence and not dis- 
cern. 
Eve. Though we were near enough 
to see them shine, 
The shadow on thy face were awfuller. 
To me, at least, — to me — than all their 
light. 
Adam. What is this, Eve ? thou 
droppest heavily 
In a heap earthward : and thy body 

heaves 
Under the golden floodings of thy hair ! 
Eve. O Adam, Adam ! by that name 
of Eve — 
Thine Eve, thy life — which suits me 

little now. 
Seeing that I now confess myself thy 

death 
And thine undoer, as the snake was 

mine, — 
I do adjure thee, put me .straight away. 
Together with my name. Sweet, pun- 
ish me ! 
O Love be just I and ere we pass be- 
yond 
The light cast outward by the fiery 

sword. 
Into the dark, which earth must be to 

ILS, 

Bruise my head with thy foot. — as the 

curse said 
My seed shall be the first tempter's : 

strike with curse. 
As God struck in the garden ! and as 

He, [wrath, 

Being satisfied with justice and with 



i;'4 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



l)id roll His thunder gentler nt the 

close, — 
Thou, peradventure, may'st at hist re- 
coil 
To some soft need of mercy. Strike, my 

lord ! 
/, also, after tempting, writhe on the 

ground ; 
And I would feed on ashes from thy 

hand, 
As suits me, O my tempted. 

Adam. My beloved, 

Mine Eve and life — I have no other 

name 
For thee or for the sun than what ye 

are, 
My utter life and light 1 If we have 

fallen. 
It is that we have sinned, — we : God is 

just ; 
And since His curse doth comprehend us 

both. 
It must be that His balance holds the 

weights 
Of first and last sin on a level. What I 
Shall I who had not virtue to stand 

straight 
Among the hills of Eden, here assume 
To mend the justice of the perfect God, 
By piling up a curse upon His curse, 
Against thee — thee — 

Eve. For so, perchance, thy God 

Might take thee into grace for scorning 

me ; 
Thy wrath against the sinner giving 

proof 
Of inward abrogation of the sin ! 
And also the blessed angels might come 

down 
And walk with thee as erst, — I think 

they would, — 
Because I was not near to make them 

sad. 
Or soil the rustling of their innocence. 
Adam. They know me. I am deep- 
est in the guilt 
If last in the transgression. 

Eve. Thou ! 

Adam. If God 

Who gave the right and joyaunce of the 

world 
Both unto thee and me, — gave thee to 

me, [worst, 

The best gift last ; the last sin was the 



Which sinned against more comple- 
ment of gifts 

And grace of giving. God ! I render 
back 

Strong benediction and perpetual praise 

From mortal feeble lips, (as incense- 
smoke. 

Out of a little censer, may fill heaven,) 

That Thou, in striking my benumbed 
hands 

And forcing them to drop all other 
boons 

Of beauty and dominion and delight, — 

Hast left this well-beloved Eve — this 
life 

Within life — this best gift between their 
palms. 

In gracious compensation ! 

Eve. Is it thy voice ? 

Or some saluting angel'.s — calling home 

My feet into the garden ? 

Adam. O my God ! 

I, standing here between the glory and 
dark, — 

The glory of thy wrath projected forth 

From Eden's wall ; the dark of our dis- 
tress 

Which settles a step off in that drear 
world — 

Lift up to Thee the hands from whence 
hath fallen 

Only creation's .sceptre, — thanking Thee 

That rather Thou hast cast me out with 
her 

Than left me lorn of her in Paradise ; 

With angel looks and angel songs 
around 

To show the absence of her eyes and 
voice. 

And make society full desertness. 

Without her use in comfort ! 

Eve. Where is loss? 

Am I in Eden ? can another speak 

Mine own love's tongue ? 

Adam. Because with her, I stand 

Upright, as far as can be in this fall. 

And look away from heaven which doth 
accuse. 

And look away from earth which doth 
convict. 

Into her face ; and crown my dis- 
crowned brow [her 

Out of her love ; and put the thought o( 

Around me, for an Eden full of birds ; 



A BAHAMA OF EXILE. 



17s 



And lift her body up — cluis— to my 

heart ; 
And with my lips upon her lips, — thus, 

thus, — 
Do quicken and sublimate my mortal 

breath 
Which cannot climb against the grave's 

steep sides 
But overtops this grief! 

Eve. I am renewed : 

My eyes grow with the light which is 

in thine ; 
The silence of my heart is full of sound. 
Hold me up — so I Because I compre- 
hend 
This human love. I shall not be afraid 
Of any human death ; and yet because 
I know this strength of love, I seem to 

know 
Death's strength by that same sign. 

Kiss on my lips. 
To shut the door close on my rising 

soul, — 
Lest It pass outwards in astonishment 
And leave thee lonely. 

Adavi. Yet thou liest. Eve, 

B^nt heavily on thyself across mine 

arm. 
Thy face flat to the sky. 

Eve. Ay ! and the tears 

Running as it might seem, my life from 

me ; 
They run .so fast and warm. Let me lie 

so. 
And weep so.^as if in a dream or 

prayer. 
Unfastening, clasp by clasp, the hard, 

tight thought 
Which clipped my heart and showed 

me evermore 
Loathed of thy justice as I loathe the 

snake. 
And as the pure ones loathe our sin. 

To-day, 
All day, beloved, as we fled across 
This desolating radiance cast by swords 
Not suns, my lips prayed soundless to 

myself. 
Striking against each other — O Lord 

God! 
('Twas so I prayed) I ask Thee by my 

sin. 
And by thy curse, and by thy blameless 
heavens. 



Make dreadful haste to hide me from 

thy face 
And from the face of my beloved here. 
For whom I am no helpmete, quick 

away 
Into the new dark mystery of death ! 
I will lie still there ; I will make no 

plaint ; 
I will not sigh, nor sob, nor speak a 

word. 
Nor struggle to come back beneath the 

sun 
Where peradventure I might sin anew 
Against thy mercy and his pleasure. 

Death, 
Oh, death, whate'er it be, is good enough 
For such as I am. — While for Adam 

here 
No voice shall say again, in heaven or 

earth, 
// is not good for him to be alone. 
Adam. And was it good for such a 
prayer to pass. 
My unkind Eve, betwixt our mutual 

lives? 
If 1 am exiled, must I be bereaved ? 
Eve. 'Twas an ill prayer : it shall be 
prayed no more ; 
And God did use it like a foolishness. 
Giving no answer. Now my heart has 

grown 
Too high and strong for such a foolish 

prayer ; 
Love makes it strong : and since I was 

the first 
In the transgression, with a steady foot 
I will be first to tread from this sword- 
glare 
Into the outer darkness of the waste, — 
And thus I do it. 

Adam. Thus I follow thee. 

As crewhile in the sin. — What sounds ! 

what sounds ! 
I feel a music which comes straight from 

Heaven, 
As tender as a watering dew. 

Eve. I think 

That angel.s — not those guarding Para- 
dise, — 
But the love-angels who came erst tons. 
And when we said ' God,' fainted una- 
wares 
Back from our mortal presence unto 
God, 



176 



A IJRAMA OF r.XlLE. 



(As if he drew them inward in a bre-ith) 
His name being heard of them, — I think 

that they 
With sliding voices lean from heavenly 

towers, 
Invisible but gracious. Hark — how 

soft ! 

CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS. 
(Faint and tender.) 
Mortal man and woman, 

Go upon your travel ! 
Heaven assist the human 

Smoothly to unravel 
All that web of pain 

Wherein ye are holden. 
Do ye know our voice:; 

Chantin.5 down the golden ? 
Do ye gueis our choice is, 

Being unbeholden. 
To be barkened by you, yet again ? 
This pure door of opal, 

God hath shut between us ; 
Us, his shining people, 

You who once have seen us. 
And are blinded new ! 

Yet across the doorway, 
Pa^t the silence reaching. 

Farewells evermore may. 
Blessing in the teaching. 

Glide from us to you. 

First seinichorus. 

Tliink how erst your Eden. 

D.iy oa day succeeding. 

With our presence glowed. 
We came as if the Heavens were bowed 

To a milder music rare ! 
Ye saw us i.i our .solemn treading, 

Treiduig down the steps of cloud ; 

Wiiile our wings outspreading 

Djible calm; of whiteness, 

U.'oppcd superfluous brightness 

Down from stair to stair. 

S-cond semicliorus. 

O-'t. abrupt though tender. 
While ye gazed on space. 
Wc flashed our angel-splendor 
III either human face ! 
With mystic lilies in our hands, 
From the atmospheric bands 
Breaking with a sudden grace, 



We took yon unaware ! 
While our feet struck glories 

Outward, smooth and fair. 
Which we stood on floorwise, 

Platformed in mid air. 

First scmtchoriis. 

Or oft, when Heaven-descended, 
Stood we in your wondering sight 

In a mute apocalypse ! 

With dumb vibrations on our lips 
From hosannas ended ; 
And grand half-vanishings 
Of the empyreal things 

Within our eyes belated ! 
Till tha heavenly Infinite 
Falling off from the Created, 
Left our inward contemplation 
Opened into ministration. 

Chorus. 
Then upon our axle turning 

Of great joy to sympathy. 
We sang out the morning 

Broadening up the sky. 

Or we drew 

Our music through 
The noontide's hush and heat and 

shine. 
Informed with our intense Divine 
Interrupted vital notes 
Palpitating hither, thither. 
Burning out into the a:iher. 
Sensible like fiery motes. 

Or, whenever twilight drifted 

Through the cedar masses. 

The globed sun we lifted, 
Tr.uling purple, trailing gold 

Out between the passes 
Of the mountains manifold. 

To anthems .slowly sung ! 
While he, aweary, half in swoon. 
For joy to hear our climbing tune 
Transpierce the stars' concentric 

rings,— 
The burden of his glory flung 
In broken lights upon our wings. 

[ The Chant dies aioay confusedly, 
and LuciFEK appears. 

Lucifer. Now may all fruits be pleas- 
ant to thy lips 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



'77 



Beautiful Eve ! The times have some- 
what changed 

Since thou and I had talk beneath a 
tree ; 

Albeit ye are not gods yet. 

Eve Adam ! hold 

My right hand strongly. It is Lucifer — 

And we have love to lose. 

Ada7ii. V the name of God, 

Go apart from as, O thou Lucifer ! 

And leave us to the desert thou hast 
made 

Out of thy treason. Bring no scrpent- 
.slime 

Athwart this path kept holy to our tears. 

Or we may curse thee with their bitter- 
ness. 
Lucifer. Curse freely ! curses thick- 
en. Why, this Eve 

Who thought me once part worthy of 
her ear. 

And somewhat wiser than the other 
beasts, — 

Drawing together her large globes of 
eyes, 

The light of which is throbbing in and 
out 

Their steadfast continuity of gaze, — 

Knots her fair eyebrows in so hard a 
knot, 

.Ajid, down from her white heights of 
womanhood. 

Looks on me so amazed, — I scarce 
should fear 

To wager such an apple as she plucked, 

Agaiast one riper from the tree of life. 

That she could curse too — as a woman 
may — 

Smooth in the vowels. 

Eve. So — speak wickedly ! 

I like it best so. Let thy words be 
wounds, — 

For, so, I shall not fear thy power to 
hurt : 

Trench on the forms cf good by open 

For, so, I shall wax strong and grand 
with scorn ; 

Scorning myself for ever trusting thee 

As far as thinking, ere a snake ate dust. 

He could speak wisdom. 

Lucifer. Our new gods, it seems 

Deal more in thunders than in courte- 
sies : 



And, sooth, mine own Olympus, which 

anon 
I shall build up to loud-voiced imagery 
From all the wandering visions of th« 

world, 
May show worse railing than our lady 

Eve 
Pours o'er the rounding of her argent 

arm. 
But why should this be ? Adam par- 
doned Eve. 
Adam. Adam loved Eve. Jehovah 

pardoned both ! 
Eve. A Jam forgave Eve — because 

loving Eve. 
Lucifer. So, well. Yet Adam was 

undone of Eve, 
As both were by the snake. Therefore 

forgive. 
In like wise, fellow temptress, the poor 

snake — 
Who stung there, not so poorly ! 

YAside. 
Eve. Hold thy wrath. 

Beloved Adam ! let me answer him ; 
For this time he speaks truth, which we 

should hear, 
And asks for mercy, which I most should 

grant. 
In like wise, as he tells us — in like 

wise ! 
And therefore I thee pardon, Lucifer. 
As freely as the streams of Eden flowed 
When we were happy by them. So 

depart ; 
Leave us to walk the remnant of our 

time 
Out mildly in the desert. Do not seek 
To harm us any more or scoff at us 
Or ere the dust be laid upon our face 
To find there the communion of the 

dust 
And issue of the dust. — Go. 

Adam. At once, go, 

Lucifer. Forgive ! and go ! Ye im- 
ages of clay. 
Shrunk somewhat in the mould, — what 

jest is this ? 
What words are these to iLse ? By what 

a thought 
Conceive ye of me ? Yesterday — a 

snake ! 
To-day, what ? 

Adam. A strong spirit. 



.78 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Eve. A sad spirit. 

Adavi, Perhaps a fallen angel. — 
Who shall say ? 

Lucifer. Who told thee, Adam ? 

Adam. Thou ! The prodigy 

Of thy vast brows and melancholy eyes 
Which comprehend the heights of some 

great fall. 
I think that thou hast one day worn a 

crown 
Under the eyes of God. 

Lucifer. And why of God ? 

Adam. It were no crown else ! 
Verily, I think 
Thoii'rt fallen far. I had not yesterday 
Said it so surely ; but 1 know to-day 
Grief by grief, sin by sin. 

Lucifer. A crown by a crown. 

Adam. Ay, mock me ! now I know 
more than I knew. 
Now I know thou art fallen below hope 
Of final re -ascent. 

Lucifer. Because ? 

Adam. Because 

A spirit who expected to see Cod, 
Though at the last point of a million 

years. 
Could dare no mockery of a ruined man 
Such as this Adam. 

Lticifcr. Who is high and bold — 

Be it said passing ! — of a good red clay 
Discovered on some top of Lebanon, 
Or haply of Aornus, beyond sweep 
Of the black eagle's wing I A furlong 

lower 
Had made a meeker king for Eden. 

Soh: 

Is it not possible, by sin and grief 

(To give the things your names) that 

spirits should rise 
Instead of falling ? 

Adam. Most impossible. 

The Highest being the Holy and the 

Glad, 
Whoever rises must approach delight 
And sanctity in the act. 

Lucifer. Ha, my clay king ! 

Thou wilt not rule by wisdom very 

long 
The after generations. Earth, me- 

ihinks. 
Will disinherit thy philosophy 
For a new doctrine suited to thine 

heirs ; 



And class these present dogmas with the 

rest 
Of the old-world traditions — Eden fruits 
And Saurian fossils. 

Eve. Speak no more with him. 

Beloved! it is not good to speak with 

him. 
Go from us, Lucifer, and speak no 

more : 
We have no pardon which thou dost 

not scorn. 
Nor any bliss, thou .seest, for coveting. 
Nor innocence for staining. Being be- 
reft. 
We would be alone. — Go. 

Lucifer. Ah ! ye talk the same, 

All of you — spirits and clay — go, and 

depart! 
In Heaven they said so ; and at Eden's 

gate,— 
And here, reiterant, in the wilderness ! 
None saith. Stay with me, for thy face 

is fair ! 
None saith. Stay with me, for thy voice 

is sweet ! 
And yet I was not fashioned out of clay. 
Look on me, woman ! Am 1 beauti- 
ful ? 
Eve Thou hast a glorious darkness. 
Lucifer. Nothing more ? 

Eve. I think no more. 
Lucifer. False Heart — thou thinkest 

more ! 
Thou canU not choose but think, as I 

praise God, 
Unwilhngly but fully, that I stand 
Most absoluta in beauty. As yourselves 
Were fashioned very good at best, so 

we 
Sprang very beauteous from the creant 

Word 
Which thrilled behind us — God Him- 
self being moved 
When that august work of a perfect 

shape. 
His dignities of sovran angel-hood 
Swept out into the universe. — divine 
With thundrous movements, earnest 

looks of gods. 
And silver-solemn clash of cymbal 

wings. 
Whereof was I in motion and in form, 
A part not poorest. And yet, — yet, 

perhaps, 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



179 



This beauty which I speak of, is not 

here. 
As God's voice is not here; nor even my 

crown — 
I do not know. What is this thought or 

thing 
Which I call beauty ? is it thought or 

thing ? 
Is it a thought accepted for a thing ? 
Or both? or neither? — a pretext? — a 

word ? 
Its meaning flutters in me like a flame 
Under my own breath : ray perceptions 

reel » 

For evermore around it, and fall off, 
As if it were too holy. 

Eve. Which it is. 

Adam. The essence of all beauty I 

call love. 
The attribute, the evidence, and end, 
The consummation to the inward .sense, 
Of beauty apprehended from without, 
1 still call love. As form, when color- 
less. 
Is nothing to the eye ; that pine tree 

there, 
Without Its black and green, being all a 

blank ; 
So, without love, is beauty undiscerned 
In man or angel. Angel ! rather ask 
What love is m thee, what love moves 

to thee, 
And what collateral love moves on with 

thee ; 
Then shalt thou know if thou art beau- 
tiful. 
Lucifer. Love ! what ii love ? I lose 

il. Beauty and love ! 
I darken to the image. Beauty — Love I 

\^He fades away, itihtU a lozv music 
sounds. 

Adam. Thou art pale, Eve. 
Eve. The precipice of ill 

Down this colossal nature, dizzies me — 
And, hark ! the starry harmony remote 
Seems measuring the heights from 
whence he fell. 
Adam. Thmk that we have not 
fallen so. By the hope 
And aspiration, by the love and faith. 
We do e.vceed the stature of this angel. 
Eve. Happier we are thaji he is, by 
the death 1 



Adatn. Or rather, by the life of the 
Lord God ! 
How dim the angel grows, ns if that blast 
Of music swept him back into the dark. 

\T!ie music is stronger, gathering 
itself into uncertain articulation. 

Eve. It throbs in on w like a plain- 
tive heart, 

Pressing, with slow pulsations, vibrative 

Its gradual sweetness through the yield- 
ing air. 

To such expression as the .stars may use. 

Most starry-sweet and strange I With 
every note 

That grows more loud, the ange! grows 
more dim, 

Receding in proportion to approach. 

Until he stands afar — a shade. 
Adam. Now, words. 

SONG OF THE MORNING ST.AR TO I^UCIFER. 

He fades utterly away, ajid vanishes, 
as it proceeds . 

Mine orbed image sinks 

Back from thee back from thee. 
As thou art fallen, methinks, 
Back from me, back from me. 
O my light bearer. 
Could another fairer 
Lack to thee, lack to thee ? 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
I loved thee with the fiery love of stars 
Who love by burning, and by loving 

move. 
Too near the throned Jehovah not to 
love. 

Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
Their brows flash fast on me from 
gliding cars. 

Pale-passioned f;-my loss. 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 

Mine orbed heats drop cold 

Down from thee, down from thee. 
As fell thy grace of old 

Down from me, down from me, 
O my light-bearer, 
Is another fairer 
Won to thee, won to thee ? 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros, 
Great love preceded loss. 



iSo 



A DRAMA OF EXILE.. 



Known to thee, known to thee. 
Ah, ah 1 
Thou, breathing thy communicable 
grace 
Of life into my light, 
Mine astral faces, from thine angel f.ice, 

Hast inly fed. 
And flooded me with radiance over- 
much 
From thy pure height. 
Ah. ah ! ^ 
Thou, with calm, floating pinions both 
ways spread, 
Erect, irradiated. 
Didst sting my wheel of glory 
On, on before thee 
Along the Godlight by a quickening 
touch ! 

Ha, na I 
Around, around the firmament.il ocean 
1 swam expanding with delirious fire ! 
Around, around, around, in blind desire 
To be drawn upward to the Infinite — 
Ha, ha I 

Until, the motion flinging out the mo- 
tion 
To a keen whirl of passion and avidity, 
To a blind whirl of languor and delight. 
I wound in girant orbits smooth and 
white 
With that intense rapidity 1 
Around, around, 
1 wound and interwound. 
While all the cyclic heavens about me 

spun 1 
Stars, planets, suns, and moons dilated 

broad, 
Then flashed together into a single sun, 

And wound, and wound in one ; 
And as they wound I wound, — around, 

around. 
In a great fire I almost took for God ! 
Ha, ha, Heosphoros I 

Thine angel glory sinks 

Down from m::, down from me — 
My beauty falls, methinks, 

Down from thee, down from thee I 
O my light-bearer, 
O my path-preparcr, 
Gone from me, gone from me ! 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
1 c.innot kindle underneath the brow 



Of this new angel here, who is not 

Thou ; 
All things are altered since that time 

ago, — 
And if I shine at eve, I shall not know — 

I am strange — I am glow ! 

Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
Henceforward, human eyes of lovers be 
The only sweetest sight that I shall see. 
With tears between the looks raised up 

to me, 

Ah, ah ! 
When, having wept all night, at break 

of day^ 
Above the folded hills they shall survey 
My light, a little trembling, in the grey. 

Ah, ah 1 
And gazing on me, such shall compre- 
hend. 
Through all my piteous pomp at morn 

or even. 
And melancholy leaning out of Heaven, 
That love, their own divine, may change 

or end, 

That love may close in loss ' 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros I 



'~,CV!^'9.-^Farther on. A wild oJ>etl 
country seen vaguely in iltc ap- 
proaching night. 

Adam. How doth the wide and mel- 
ancholy earth 
Gather her hills around us, grey and 

ghast. 
And stare with blank significance of loss 
Right in our faces I Is the wind up ? 
Eve. Nay. 

Adam. And yet the cedars andtha 
junipers 
Rock slowly through the mist, without 

a sound ; 
And shapes which have no certainty of 

shape 
Drift duskly in and out between the 

pines, 
And loom along the edges of the hills. 
And lie flat, curdling in the open 

ground- 
Shadows without a body, which con- 
tract 
And lengthen as we gaze on them. 
Ez>e. O Life 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Which is not man's nor angel's 1 What 
IS this? 
Adam. No cause for fear. The cir- 
cle of God's life 

Contains all life beside. 

Eve. 1 think the earth 

Is crazed with curse, and wanders from 
the sense 

Of those first laws affixed to form and 
space 

Or ever she knew sin I 

Adam. We will not fear : 

We were brave sinning. 

Eve. Yea, 1 plucked the fruit 

With eyes upturned to Heaven and see- 
ing there 

Our god-throne.s, as the tempter said— 
not God. 

My heart, which beat then, sinks. The 
sun has sunk 

Out of sight v.-ith our Eden. 

Adam, Night is near. 

Eve. And God's curse nearest. ]jet 
us travel back 

And stand within the sword-glare till we 
die ; 

Believing it is better to meet death 

Than suffer desolation. 

Adam. Nay, beloved I 

We must not pluck death from the Ma- 
ker's hand, 

As erst we plucked the apple : v/a must 
wait 

Until He gives death .as He gave life ; 

Nor murmur faintly o'er the primal gift. 

Because we spoilt us sweetness with our 
sin. 
Eve. Ah, ah I Dost thou discern 

what I behold ? 
Adam. I see all. How the spirits in 
thine eyes 

From their dilated orbits bound before 

To meet the .spectral Dread I 

Eve. I am afraid^ 

Ah, ah ! The twilight bristles wild with 
shapes 

Of intermittent motion, aspect vague 

And mystic bearings, which o'ercreep 
the earth. 

Keeping slow time with horrors in the 
blood. 

How near they reach . . . and far ! how 
gray they move — 

Treading upon darkness without feet. 



And fluttering on the darkness without 

wings ! 
Some run like dogs, with noses to the 

ground ; 
Some keep one path, like sheep ; some 

rock like trees. 
Some glide like a fallen leaf; and some 

flow on 
Copious as rivers. 

Adam. Some spring up like fire—- 
And some coil . . . 

Eve. Ah, ah I Dost thou pause to say 
Like what ? — coil like the serpent when 

he fell 
From all the emerald splendor of his 

height 
And writhed,— and could not climb 

against the curse. 
Not a ring's length. I am afraid^ 

afraid — 
I think it is God's will to make me 

afr.aid. 
Permitting THESE to haunt us in the 

place 
Of His beloved angels— gone from us 
Because we are not pure. Dear Pity of 

God, 
That didst permit the angels to go home 
And live no more with us who are not 

pure ; 
Save Hs too from a loathly company^ 
Almost a; loathly in our eyes, perhaps. 
As we arc in the purest 1 Pity us — 
Us too I nor shut us in the dark, away 
From verity and from stability. 
Or what wc name such through the pre- 
cedence 
Of earth's adjusted uses,— leave us not 
To doubt betwi.\t our senses and our 

souls. 
Which arc the most distraught and full 

of pain 
And weak of apprehension. 

Ada»i. Courage, sweet I 

The mystic shapes ebb back from us, 

and drop 
With slow concentric movement, erxh 

on each, — 
Expressing wider spaces, and collapsed 
In lines more definite for imagery 
And clearer for relation ; till the throng 
Of shapeless spectra merge into a few 
Distinguishable phantasms vague and 

grand, 



A DKAMA OF EXILE. 



Which sweep out and around us vastily, 

And hold ns in a circle and a calm. 
Eve. Strange phantasms of pale 
shadow ! there are twelve. 

Thou who didst name all lives, hast 
names for these ? 
Adam. Methinks this is the zodiac 
of the earth. 

Which rounds us with its visionary 
dread, 

Responding with twelve shadowy signs 
of earth. 

In fantasque apposition and approach. 

To those celestial, constellated twelve 

Which palpitate adown the silent nights 

Under the pressure of the hand of God 

Stretched wide in benediction. At this 
hour. 

Not a star pricketh the flat gloom of 
heaven ! 

But, girdling close our nether wilder- 
ness, 

The zodiac-figures of the earth loom 
slow, — 

Drawn out, as suiteth with the place and 
time. 

In twelve colossal shades instead cf stars. 

Through which the ecliptic line of mys- 
tery 

Strikes bleakly witli an unrelenting 
scope. 

Foreshowing life and d«ath. 

Eve. By dream or sense. 

Do we see this ? 

Adam. Our .spivits have climbed high 

By reason of the passion of our grief. 

And from the top of sense, looked over 
sense. 

To the significance and heart of things 

Rather than things themselves. 

Eve. And the dim twelve . . . 

Adam. Are dim exponents of the 
creature-life 

As earth contains it. Gaze on them, 
beloved ! 

By stricter apprehension of the sight, 

Suggestions of the creatures shall as- 
suage 

Thy terror of the shadows : — what is 
known 

Subduing the unknown and taming it 
From all prodigious dread. Thai phan- 
tasm, there, 
Presents a lion, — albeit twenty times 



As large as any lion — with a roar 
Set soundless in his vibratory jaws. 
And a strange horror stirring in his 

mane ! 
And, there, a pendulous shadow seems 

to weigh — 
Good against ill, perchance ; and there, 

a crab 
Puts coldly out its gradual shadow-claws. 
Like a slow blot that spreads, — till all 

the ground, 
Crawled over by it, seems to crawl it- 
self ; 
A bull stands horned here with gibboi.s 

glooms ; 
And a ram likewise : and a scorpion 

writhes 
Its tail in gha.stly slime and stings the 

_ dark ! 
This way a goat leaps vv'ith wild blank 

of beard ; 
And here fantastic fishes duskly float. 
Using the calm for waters, while their 

fins 
Throb out .slow rhythms along the 

shallow air ! 

While images more human 

Eve How he stand'. 

That phantr-cm of a man — who i.^ not 

thoii. ! 
Two phantasms of two men. 

Adam. One that sustains, 

And one that strives ! — resuming, so, the 

ends 
Of manhood's curse of labor.* Dost 

thou see 
That phantasm of a woman? — 

Eve. I have seen — 

But look off to those small humani'ies.t 
Which draw me tenderly acrosf tny 

fear, — 
Lesser and fainter than my womanhood. 
Or yet thy manhood — with strange in- 
nocence 



• Ailam recosnizea In Aqnarinn. the watcr- 
beavoi' ami Sntjittariivi, the archer. iliKtim-t t\T>''' 
of the man bearins and the man cimihatinK,— 
(he passive and active forms of liuimin labor. 
I hope that the precertins zoi'iacal signs— 
tianafened to the earthly sharii"" and repre- 
s.-iitatlve purpose— of Ar-ies. Tfl '"•"•'. Cancer, 
Leo. r.ilira. Scorpio, Tapricornna f-iul Pisces, 
are stifliciently obvious to the re*--lfr. 

t Her maternal instinct is cxci>.*ii by Ormini. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



.83 



Set in the misty lines of head and hand 
'i hey lean together ! I would gaze on 

them 
Longer and longer, till my watching 

eyes, 
As the stars do in watching anything, 
Should light them forward from their 

outlme vague 
To clear configuration — ■ 

Tjvo SfiSri/s, of organic and inor- 
ganic Jiaiure, arise from the ground. 

But what Shapes 
Rise up between us in the open space. 
And thrust me into horror back from 
hope ? 
Adam. Colo.ssal Shapes — twin sovran 
images. 
With a disconsolate, blank majesty 
Sit in their wondrous faces I — with no 

look. 
And yet an aspect — i significance 
Of individual lifj and passionate ends, 
Which overcomes us gazing. 

O bleak sound ! 
O shadow of sound, O phantasm of thin 

sound ! 
How it comes, wheeling as the pale 

moth wheels, 
Wheeling and wheeling in continuous 

wail, 
Around the cycli- zodiac ; and gains 

force. 
And gathers, settling coldly like a 

moth, 
On the wan faces of these images 
We see before us ; whereby modified 
It draws a straight Ime to articulate 

song 
From out that spiral faintness of la- 
ment — 
A.nd, by one voice, expresses many 
griefs. 

First Spirit. 
1 am the spirit of the harmless earth ,• 
God spake me softly out among the 
stars. 
As softly as a ble-ssing of much worth. 
All J then. His smile did follow una- 
wares. 
That all things fashioned so for use and 
duty 



Might shine anointed with His r.hrism 
of beauty — 

Yet I wail ! 
I drave on with the worlds exultingly, 
Obliquely down the Godlight's grad- 
ual fall- 
Individual a.spect and complexity 

Of gyratory orb and interval 
Lost in the fluent motion of delight 
Toward the high ends of Being beyond 
sight — 

Vet I wail I 

Second Spirit. 
I am the Spirit of the harmless beasts. 
Of flying things, and creeping things, 
and swimmmg ; 
Of all the lives, erst set at silent feasts, 
That found the love-kiss on the gob- 
let brimming. 
And tasted, in each drop within the 

measure 
The sweetest pleasure of their Lord's 
good pleasure — 
Yet I wail ! 
What a full hum of life around His 
lips. 
Bore witness to the fulness of crea- 
tion ! 
How all the grand words were full-la- 
den ships ; 
Each sailing onward from enuncia- 
tion. 
To separate existence, — and each bear- 
ing 
The creature's power of joying, hoping, 
fearing ! 

Yet I wail ! 
Eve. They wail, beloved ! tlicv 
speak of glory and God, 
And they wail — wail. That burden of 

the song 
Drops from it like its fruit, and heavily 

falls 
Into the lap of silence ! 

Adam. Hark, again ! 

First Spirit. 
I was so beautiful, .so beautiful. 

My joy stood up within mo bold to 
add 
A word to God's, and when His work 
was full. 



.S4 



A DRAMA : F EXILE. 



To ' very good,' responded very 
glad ! ' 
Filtered through ro'ies, did the light en' 

clo>e me ; 
And bunches of the grape swam blue 
acroj>j me^ 

Yet I wail I 

Second Spirit. 
1 bounded with my panthers I I re- 
joiced 
In my young tumbling lions rolled 
together ! 
My stag— the river at his fetlocks- 
poised, 
Then dipped his antlers through the 
goldea weather 
In the sams ripple which the alligator 
Left in his joyo'H troubling of the water 1 
YeT I wail I 

First Spirit. 
O mv deep witer=:, cataract and flood. 
What wordless triumph did your voices 
render I 
O mountain-summits, where the angels 
stood 
And shook from head and wing thick 
dew-; of splendor ; 
Ho-.v with a holy quiet, did your 

Earthy 
Accept that Heavenly — knowing yc 
were worthy ! 

Yet I wail I 

Second Spirit. 
O my will wood dogs, with your listen- 
ing eyes 1 
My horses— my ground eagles, for 
swift fleeing ! 
My birds, with viewless wings of har- 
monies, 
My calm cold fishes of a silver being, 
How happy Were ye, living and possess- 
ing, 

fair half-souls capacious of full bless- 

ing- 
Yet I wail ! 

First Spirit. 

1 wail. I wail ! Now hear my charge 

to-day, 
Tho'i min. th-)u woman, marked as 
the misdoers 



By God's sword at your backs 1 I lent 
my clay 
To make your bodies, which had 
grown more flowers : 
And rtow, in change lor what I lent, yc 

give me 
The thorn to vex, the tempest-fire to 
cleave me-*- 

And I wail I 

Second Spirit, 
I wail, I wail 1 Behold ye that I fasten 
My sorrow's fang upon your souls 
dishonored ? 
Accursed transgressors I down the steep 

ye hasten,— 
Your crown's weight on the world, to 

drag it downward 
Unto your ruin. Lot my lions, scenting 
I'he blood of wars, roar hoarse and un- 
relentmg — 

And I wail I 

First Spirit. 
I wail, I wail 1 Do you hear that I \/ail ? 
I had no part in your transgression — 
none 1 
My rose on the bough did bud not pale — 

My rivers did not loiter in the sun. 
/ was obedient. NVherefore m my 

centre 
Do 1 thrill at this curse of death and 
winter ! — 

And I wail 1 

Second Spirit. 
I wail, I wail ! I wail in the assault 
Of undeserved perdition, sorely 
wounded ! 
My nightingales sang sweet without a 
fault. 
My gentle leopards innocently 
bounded ; 
We were obedient — what is this con- 
vulses 
Our blameh ss life with pangs and fever 
pulses ? 

And I wail ! 
Eve. I choose God's thunder .and His 
angels' s Words 
To die by, Adam, rather than such 

words. 
Let us pass out and flee. 



A VRAAfA OF EXILE. 



185 



Adatii. We cannot flee. 

This zodiac of the creatures' cruelty 
Curls round us, like a river colli and 

drear, 
And shuts iLs in, constraining us to hear. 

First Spirit, 
1 feel your steps, O wandering sinners, 
strike 
A sense of death to me, and imdug 
graves I 
The heart of earth, once calm, is trem- 
bling like 
The ragged foam along the ocean- 
waves ; 
The restless earthquakes rock against 

each other ; 
The elements moan 'round me—' Moth- 
er, mother ' — 

And I wail I 

Second Spirit. 
Your melancholy looks do pierce me 
through ; 
Corruption swathes the paleness of 
your beauty. 
Why have ye done this thing ? What 
did we do 
That we should fall from bliss as yc 
from duty ? 
Wild shriek the hawks, in waiting for 

their jesses, 
Fi',;rce howl the wolves along the wilder- 
nesses — 

And I wail I 
Adam. To thee, the Spirit of the 
harmless earth- 
To thee, the Spirit of earth's harmless 

lives — 
Inferior creatures but still innocent- 
Be salutation from a guilty mouth 
Vet worthy of some audience and re- 
spect 
From you who are not guilty. If wc 

have sinned, 
God hath rebuked us, who is over us. 
To give rebuke or death : and if ye wail 
Because of any siiflTering from our sin. 
Ye who are under and not over us, 
Ee satisfied with Gnd, if not with U9, 
And p.iss out from our presence in such 

peace 
As we have left you, to enjoy revenge 



Such as the Heavens have made you. 
Verily, 

There must be strife between us, large* 
as sin. 
Ev:. No strife, mine Adam 1 Let us 
not stand high 

Upon the wrong wc did to reach dis- 
dain, 

Who rather !;hould be humbler ever- 
more 

Since self-made sadder. Adam 1 shall 
I speak-^ 

I who spake once to such a bitter end — 

Shall I speak humbly now, who once 
was proud ? 

I, schooled by sin to more humility 

Than thou hast, O mine Adam, O my 
king— 

l\Iy king, if not the world's ? 

Adam. Speak-as thou wilt. 

Eve. Thus then — my hand in thine — 
.... Sweet, dreadful Spirits/ 

I pray you humbly in the name of God; 

Not to say of these tears, which are im- 
pure — 

Grant me such pardoning grace as can 
go forth 

From clean volitions tow.ird a spotted 
will. 

From the wronged to the wronger ; this 
and no more ; 

I do not ask more. I am 'ware, indeed, 

'J'hat absolute pardon is impossible 

From you to me, by reason of my sin, — 

And that I cannot everitiore, as once, 

With worthy acceptation of pure joy, 

Behold the trances of the holy hills 

Beneath the leaning stars ; or watch the 
vales 

Dew-pallid with their morning ec tasy ; 

Or hear the winds make pastoial peace 
between 

Two grassy uplands, — and the river- 
wells 

Work out their bubbling mysteries 
under ground — 

And ail the birds sing, till for joj' of 
song, 

They lift their trembling wings r.s if to 
heave 

The too-much weight of music from 
their heart 

And float it up the aether I I am 'ware 



A V/CAMA OF EXILE. 



That these things I can no more com- 
prehend 
With a full organ into a full delight , 
The sense of beauty and of melody 
Being no more aided in me by the sense 
Of personal adjustment to those heights 
Of what I see well-formed or hear well- 
tuned. 
But rather coupled darkly and made 

ashamed 
By the percipiency of sin and fall 
In melancholy of humiliant thoughts. 
But, oh I fair, dreadful Spirits — albeit 

this 
Your accusation must confront my soul. 
And your pathetic utterance and full 

gaze 
Must evermore subdue me ; be con- 
tent- 
Conquer me gently — as if pitying me, 
Not to say loving I let my tears fall 

thick 
As watering dews of Eden, unre- 

proached ; 
And when your tongues reprove me, 

make me smooth, 
Not ruffled — smooth and still with your 

reproof. 
And peradventure better while more sad. 
For look to it sweet Spirits — look well to 

it — 
It will not be amiss in you who kept 
The law of your own righteousness, and 

keep 
The right of your own griefs to mourn 

themselves. — 
To pity me twice fallen, — from that, and 

this. 
From joy of place, and also right of 

wail, 
' I wail ' being not for me — only ' I sin.' 
Took to it, O sweet Spirits I — 

For was I not. 
At that last sunset seen in Paradise, 
When all the westering clouds flashed 

out in throngs 
Of sudden angel-faces, face by face, 
All hushed, and solemn, as a thought of 

God 
Held them suspended, — was I not, that 

hour. 
The lady of the world, princess of life. 
Mistress of feast and favor ? Could I 

touch 



A rose with my white hand, but it 

became 
Redder at once ? Could I walk leis- 
urely 
Along our swarded garden, but the 

grass 
Tracked mc with greenness? Could I 

stand aside 
A moment underneath a cornel-tree, 
lint all the leaves did tremble as alive 
With songs of fifty birds who were made 

glad 
Because I stood there ? Could I turn to 

look 
With these twain- eyes of mine, now 

weeping fast, 
Now good for only weeping — upon man. 
Angel, or beast, or bird, but each re- 
joiced 
Because 1 looked on him ? Alas, alas ! 
And is not this much wo, to cry 'alas !' 
Speaking of joy ? And is not this more 

shame, 
To have made the wo myself, from all 

that joy ■? 
To have stretched my hand, and plucked 

it from the tree, 
And chosen it for fruit ? Nay, is not 

this 
Still most despair, — to have halved that 

bitter fruit. 
And ruined, so, the sweetest friend I 

have. 
Turning the GRE.\TESTto mine enemy ? 
Adam. I will not hear thee speak 

so. Hearken, Spirits ! 
Our God, who is the enemy of none. 
But only of their sin, — hath set your 

hope 
And my hope, in a promise, on this 

Head. 
Show reverence, then, — and never 

bruise her more 
With unpermitted and extreme re- 
proach ; 
Lest, passionate in anguish, she (ling 

down 
Beneath your trampling feet, God's gift 

to us. 
Of sovranty by reason and freewill ! 
Sinning against the province of the 

Soul 
To rule the soulless. Reverence hef 

estate : 



A IVCA.UA OF EXILE. 



And pass out from her presence with 
no words. 
]'.7'c'. O dearest Heart, have patience 
with my heart, 

O !ipirits, have patience, 'stead of rev- 
erence. 

And let mo speak : for, not being inno- 
cent, 

It little doth become me to be proud ; 

And I am prescient by the very hope 

And promise set upon me, that hence- 
forth 

Only my gentleness shall make me 
great. 

My humbleness exalt me. Awful Spir- 
its, 

Be witness that I stand in your reproof 

But one sun's length off from my happi- 
ness — 

Happy, as I have said, to look around — 

Clear to look up ! — and now ! 1 need 
not speak — 

Ye see me what I am ; ye scorn me so, 

Ijecause ye see mc what I have made 
myself 

From God's best making I Alas, — peace 
foregone, 

Love wronged, — and virtue forfeit, and 
tears wept 

Upon all, vainly ! Alas, me! alas, 

Who have undone myself from all that 
best. 

Fairest and sweetest, to this wretched- 
est. 

Saddest and most defiled — cast out, cast 
down — 

What word metes absolute loss? let ab- 
solute loss 

Suffice you for revenge. For /, who 
lived 

Beneath the wings of angels yesterday. 

Wander to-day beneath the roofless 
world I 

/, reigning the earth's empress yester- 
day. 

Put olT from me, to-day, your hate with 
prayers ! 

/, yesterday, who answered the Lord 
God, 

Composed and glad as singing-birds the 
sun. 

Might shriek now from our dismal des- 
ert, ' God,' 



And bear Him make reply, ' What \i 
thy need. 

Thou whom I cursed to-day ? ' 

Adam. Eve I 

Eve. /, at last, 

Who yesterday was helpmate and de- 
'ight . 

Unto mme Adam, am to-day the grief 

And curse-mete for him 1 And, so, pity 
us, 

Ve gentle Spirits, and pardon him and 
me, 

And let some tender peace, made of out 
pain. 

Grow up betwixt us, as a tree might 
grow 

With boughs on both sides. In tha 
shade of which. 

When presently ye shall behold us 
dead.— 

For the poor sake of our humility. 

Breathe out your pardon on our breath- 
less lips. 

And drop your twilight dews against 
our brows ; 

And stroking with mild airs our harm- 
less hands 

Left empty of all fruit, perceive your 
love 

Distilling through your pity over us. 

And suffer it, self-reconciled, to pass. 

Lucife:^ rises in the circle. 

Lucifer. Who talks here of a com- 
plement of grief? 

Of expiation wrought by loss and fall ? 

Of hate subduable to pity ? Eve ? 

Take counsel from thy counsellor the 
snake. 

And boast no more in grief, nor hope 
from pain. 

My docile Eve ! I teach you to des- 
pond, 

Who taught you disobedience. Look 
around ; — 

Earth-spirits and phantasms hear you 
talk unmoved. 

As if ye were red clay again and talked 1 

What are your vorQs to them ? your 
griefs to them '/ 

Your deaths, indeed, to them ? Did t!va 
hand pause 



A DRA^-ifA OF EXILE. 



For their sake, in the plucking of the 

fruit. 
That they should paase {or you, in hat- 
ing you ; 
Or will your grief or death, as did your 

sin, 
Bring change upon their final doom ? 

Behold, 
Youi grief is but your sin in tlie rebound, 
And cannot expiate for it. 

AcinDi. Ihat is true. 

Luci/cr. Ay, it is true. The clay- 
king testifies 
To the snake's counsel, — hear him ! — 
very true. 
Earth Spirits. I wad, I wail ! 
Luci/cr. And certes, that is true. 
Ye wail, ye all wad. Peradventnre I 
Could wad among you. O thou uni- 
verse. 
That boldest sin and wo, — raore rooni 
for waji ! 
Distant starry voice. Ah, ah, Heos- 

phonis ! Heosphorus ! 
Aiia>n. Mark Lucifer. He changes 

awfully. 
Eve. It seems as if he looked from 
grief to God 
A.nd could iiot see Him ; — wretched Lu- 
cifer ! 
Aiiaiit. How he stands — yet an an- 

Eartli Spirits. We all wad 

Lucifer, [after a pause.) Dost thou 
remember, 

Adam, when the curse 

Took us in Eden ? On a mountain- 
peak 

Half-sheathed in primal woods and glit- 
tering 

In spasms of awful sunshine at that hour 

A lion couched, — part raised upon his 
paws. 

With his calm, massive face turned full 
on thine. 

And his mane listening. When the 
ended curse 

Lf;ft silence in the world, — right sud- 
denly 

He sprang up rampant and stood straight 
and stilT, 

A.S if the new reality of death 

Were dashed against his eyes, — and 
roare.d so fierce 



(Such thick carnivorous passion in his 

throat 
Tearing a passage through the wrath 

and fear) 
And roared so wild, and .smote from all 

the hills 
Such fast, keen echoes crumbling down 

the vales 
Precipitately, — that the forest beasts, 
One after one, did mutter a response 
Of savage and of .sorrowful complaint 
Which trailed along the gorges. Then, 

at once, 
lie f_ll back, and rolled crashing from 

the height 
Into the dust of pines. 

Adam. It might have been 

I heard the curse alone. 

Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail ! 

Lucifer. That lion is the type of 
what I am ! 
And as he fixed thee with his full-faced 

hate. 
And roared, O Adam — comprehending 

doom ; 
So, gazing on the face of the Unseen, 
I cry out here between the heavens and 

earth 
My conscience of this sin, this wo, this 

wrath, 
Which damn me to this depth ! 

Eartli St'irif^- 1 wail, I wail ! 

Eve. I wa!) O God! 
Lucifer. I Scorn you that ye wail. 
Who use your petty griefs for pedestals 
To stand on, beckoning pity from with- 
out. 
And deal in pathos of antithesis 
Of what ye ivere forsooth, and what ye 

are ; — 
I .scorn you like an angel ! Yet, one cry 
I, too, would drive up like a column 

erect, 
Marble to marble, from my heart \.C 

Heaven, 
A monument of anguish to transpierce 
.And overtop your vanory complaints 
Expressed from feeble woes ! 

Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail ! 

Lucifer. For, O ye heavens, ye are 
my witnesses. 
That /, struck out from nature in a blot. 
The outcast and the mildew of thinja 
good. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



189 



The leper of angels, the excepted dust 
Under the common ram of daily gifts, — 
1 thesnake, 1 the tempter, 1 the cursed, — 
To whoni the highest and the lowest 

alike 
Say, Go from us — we have no need of 

thee, — 
Was made by God like others. Good 

and fair. 
He did create me ! — ask Him, if not fair; 
Ask, if I caught not fair and silverly 
His blessmg for chief angels on my head 
Until it grew there, a crown crystallized ! 
Ask, if He never called me by my 

name, 
Luci/er — kindly said as ' Gabriel ' — - 
Lucifer — soft as ' Michael !' While 

serene 
1, standing in the glory of the lamps. 
Answered ' my father,' innocent of 

shame 
And of the sense of thunder. Ha ! ye 

think. 
White angels in your niches, — I repent. 
And would tread down my own offences 

back 
To service at the footstool ! That's read 

wrong : 
I cry as the beast did, that I may cry — 
Expansive, not appealing! Fallen so 

deep 
Against the side of this prodigious pit, 
1 cry — cry — dashing out the hands of 

wail 
On each side, to meet anguish every- 
where. 
And to attest it in the ecstasy 
And exaltation of a wo sustained 
Because provoked and chosen. 

Pass along 
Your wilderness, vain mortals ! Puny 

griefs 
In transitory shapes, be henceforth 

dwarfed 
To your own conscience by the dread 

extremes 
Of what 1 am and have been. If ye 

have fallen. 
It is a step's fall, — the whole ground 

beneath 
Strewn woolly soft with promise ; if ye 

have sinned. 
Your prayers tread high as angels ! if ye 

have grieved. 



\e are too mortal to be pitiable. 

The power to die disproves the right to 

grieve. 
Go to ! ye call this rinn. I half-scorn 
'Ihe ill I did you ! Were ye vironged 

by me. 
Hated and tempted and undone of mej — 
Still, what's your hurt to mine of coing 

hurt. 
Of hating, tempting, and .so ruining? 
This .sword's hilt is the sharpest, and 

cuts through 
The hand that wields it. 

Go— I curpe you all. 
Hate one another — feebly — as ye can ; 
I would not certes cut you short in hate — 
Far be it fnmi me ! hate on as ye can ! 
1 breathe into your faces, spirits of earth. 
As wintry lla?t may breathe on wintry 

leaves 
And lifting up their brownness, show 

beneath 
The branches very bare.— Beseech you, 

spirits, give 
To Eve, who beggarly entreats your 

love 
For her and Adam when they shall be 

dead. 
An answer rather fitting to the sin 
Than to the sorrow — as the Heavens, I 

trow. 
For justice' sake gave theirs. 

1 curse you both, 
Adam and Eve ! Say grace as after 

meat. 
After my curses. May your tears fall 

hot 
On all the hissing scorns o' the creatures 

here, — 
And yet rejoice. Increase and multi- 

Ye and your generations, in all plagues. 
Corruptions, melancbulies, poverties. 
And hideous forms cf hie and fears of 

death ; 
The thought of death being alway emi- 
nent 
Immoveable and dreadful in your life. 
And deafly and dumbly insignificant 
Of any hope beyond, ^as death itself. 
Whichever of you lieth dead the first. 
Shall seem to the survivor^ — yet rejoice ! 
My curse catch at you strongly, body 
and soul. 



A /'yV.-I.l/.-l OF EXILE. 



And He find no redemption — nor tlie 

wing 
Of scrap'.i move your way— and yet re- 
joice ! 
Rejoice, — because ye have not set in you 
This hate wliich shall pursue you — this 

fire-hate 
Which glares without, because it burns 

within^ 
Which kills from ashes — this potential 

hate, 
Wherein I, angel, in antagonism 
To (lod and his reflex beatitudes. 
Moan ever in the central universe 
With the great wo of striving against 

Love — 
And gasp for space amid the infinite — 
And toss for rest amid the Desertness — 
Self-orphaned by my will, and self-elect 
I'o kingship of resistant agony 
Toward the Good round me — hating 

good and love. 
And willing to hate good and to hate 

love. 
And willing to will on so evermore, 
Scorning the Past, and damning the To 

con'ie — 
Go and rejoice ! I curse you ! 

LuciFEX vanishes. 



Earth S/i'ri/s. 

And we scorn you ! there's no pardon 

Which can lean to you aright ! 
When your bodies take the guerdon 
Of the death-curse in our sight, 
Then the bee that hummeth lowest sliall 
transcend you. 
Then ye shall not move an eyelid 
Though the stars look down your 
eyes ; 
And the earth which ye defiled. 
Shall expose you to the skies, — 
' Lo ! these kings of ours — who sought to 
comprehend you.' 

First Spirit. 

And the elements shall boldly 

All your dust to dust constrain ; 
Unresistedly and coldly 

I will smite you with my rain ! 
From the slowest of my frosts is no re- 
ceding'. 



Second Spirit. 

And my little worm, appointed 

To assume .a royal part, 
He shall reign, crowned and anointed. 

O'er the noble human heart ! 
Gi\ e him counsel against losing of that 
Eden ! 
Adam. Do ye scorn us ? Back your 

scorn 
Toward your faces gray and lorn. 
As the wind drives back the rain. 
Thus I drive with passion -strife ; 
I who stand beneath God's sun. 
Made like God, and, though undone. 
Not unmade for love and life. 
Lo ! yc utter ll.rcats in vain ! 
By my free will that chose sin, 
By mine agony within 
Round the passage of the fire ; 
By the pinings which disclose 
Ihat my native soul is higher 

Than what it chose. 
We are yet too high, O .spirits, for your 
disdain 
Eve Nay, beloved ! if these be low. 
We confront them with no height ; 
We have stooped down to their level 
By infecting them with evil. 
And their scorn that meets our blow 

Scathes aright. 
Amen. Let it be so. 

Ear til Spirits. 

We shall triumph — triumph greatly 
When ye lie beneath the sward ! 
There, our lily shall grow stately 
Though ye an.swer not a word — 
And with fragrance .shall be scornful of 
your silence. 
While your throne ascending calmly 

We. in heirdom o^ your soul. 
Flash the river, lift the palm tree. 
The dilated ocean roll 
By the thoughts that throbbed witMn 
you — round the islands. 

Alp and torrent shall inherit 
Your significance of will : 
With the grandeur of your spirit 
Shall our broad savann.ahs fill — 
In our winds, your exultations shall be 
springing. 
Even your parlance which inveigHs, 
By our rudeness shall be won : 



A DRAMA OF EXILE, 



Hearts poetic in our eagles 
Shall beat >ip against the siin. 
And strike downward in articulate clear 
suiging. 

Your bold speeches, o\ir Behemoth 
With his thunderous jaw shall 
; wield ! 

Your high fancies shall our Mammoth 
Breathe sublimely up the shield 
Of St. Michael at God's throne, who 
waits to speed him ! 
Till the heavens' smooth-grooved 
thunder 
Spinning back, shall leave them 
clear ; 
And the angels smiling wonder 

With dropt looks from sphere to 
sphere, 
Shall cry, ' Ho, ye heirs of Adam ! ye 
exceed him 1 ' 
AJain. Root out thine eyes, sweet, 
from the dreary ground. 
Beloved, we may be overcome by God. 
But not by these. 
Eve. By God, perhaps, in these. 

Adam. I think, not so. Had God 
foredoomed despair. 
He had not spoken hope. He may de- 
stroy 
Certes, but not deceive. 

E^ve. Behold this rose ! 

I plucked it in our bower of Paradise 
This morning as I went forth ; and my 

heart 
Hath beat against its petals all the day. 
I thought it would be always red and 

full 
As when I plucked it. — Is it? — Ye may 

see ! 
I cxst it down to you that ye may .see. 
All of you ! — count the petals lost of 

it — 
And note the colors fainted ! ye may 

see : 
And I am a.'; it is, who yesterday j 

Grew in the same place. O ye spirits 

of earth ! I 

I almost, from my miserable heart, I 

Could here upbraid you for your cruel 

heart, 
Which will not let me^ down the slope 

of death. 
Draw any of your pity after ms. 



Or lie still in the quiet of your looks. 
As my flower, there, in mine. 

[A bleak wind, quickened -with indis- 
tinct human zioices, spins around 
the earth-zodiac : and fUling the 
circle luith its presence, and then 
•wailing off into the east, carries 
tiie rose away with it. Eve falls 
upon her face. Adam stands erect. 
Adam. So, verily. 

The last departs. 

Eve. So Memory follows Hope, 

And Life both. Love said to me, ' Dc 
not die,' 

And I replied, ' O Love, I will not die. 

1 exiled and I will not orphan Love.' 

But now it is no choice of mine to 
die — 

My heart throbs from me. 
Adam. Call it straightway back. 

Death's consummation crowns com- 
pleted life. 

Or comes too early. Hope being set 
on thee 

For others ; if for others then for thee, — 

For thee and me. 

[ The wind revolves from, the cast, and 
round again to the east, perfumed 
by the Eden-rose, ajid full of zwiccs 
luhich sweep out into articulation 
as they pass. 

Let thy soul shake its leaves 

To feel the mystic wind — Hark ! 

Eve. I hear life. 

Infant voices passing in the luind. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we receive 
Is a warm thing and a new. 
Which wc softly bud into 
From the heart and from the brain; 
Something strange that overmuch is 

Of the sound and of the sight. 
Flowing round in trickling touches.. 

With a sorrow and delight, — 
Yet is it all in vain ? 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 

Vouthful voices passing, 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we achieve 



192 



A VKA^TA OF EXILE.. 



Is a loud thing and a bold, 
Which with pulses manifold 
Strikes the heart out full and fain — 
Active doer, noble hver. 

Strong to struggle, sure to conquer. 
Though the vessel's prow will quiver 

At the lifting of the anchor : 
Yet do we strive in vain ? 

Ill/ant voices passitig. 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 

Poet voices passing: 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we conceive 
Is a clear thing and a fair. 
Which we set in crystal air 
That its beauty may be plain : 
With a breathing and a flooding 

Of the heaven-life on the whole. 
While we hear the forests budding 

To the music of the soul — 
Yet is it tuned in vain 1 



Infant voices passing. 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 

Philosophic voices passing. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we perceive. 
Is a great thing and a grave. 
Which for others' use we have. 
Duty-laden to remain. 
We are helpers, fellow-creatures. 

Of the right against the wron.^. 
We are earnest-hearted teachers 

Of the truth which maketh strong — 
Yet do we teach in vain ? 



Rock us softly. 



Infant voices passing. 
Lest it be all in vain. 



RczkI voices passing. 
O we live. O we live — 
And this life that we reprieve 
Is a low thing and a light, 
Which is jested out of sight. 
And made worthy of disdain ! 
Strike with bold electric laughter 

The high tojjs of things divine- 



Turn thy head, my brother, after, 

Le-t thy tears fall in my wine ;— 
For is all laughed in vain? 

Infant voices passi}ig. 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 

Eve. I hear a sound of life — of life 

like ours — 
Of laughter and of wailing, — of grave 

speech. 
Of little plaintive vof'ies innocent. 
Of life in separate courses flowing out 
Like our four rivers to some outward 

main. 
1 hear life — life ! 
Adam. And, so, thy cheeks have 

snatched 
Scarlet to paleness ; and thine eye drink 

fast 
Of glory from full cups ; and thy moist 

lips 
Seem trembling, both of them, with 

earnest doubts 
Whether to utter words or only smile. 
Eve. Shall I be mother of the com- 
ing life ? 
Hear the steep generations, how they 

fall 
Adown the visionary stairs of Time, 
Like supernatural thunders — far yet 

near ; 
Sowing their fiery echoes through the 

hills. 
Am I a cloud to these — mother to these? 
Earth Spirits. And bringer of th\ 

curse upon all these. 

Eve sinks down again 



Poet voices passing. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we conceive. 
Is a noble thing and high, 
Which we climb up loftily 
To view God without a stain : 
Till recoiling where the shade is. 

We retread our steps again. 
And descend the gloomy Hades 
To resume man's mortal pain. 
Shall it be climbed in vain t 



A DRAMA 


OF EXILE 193 


InfitHt voices passing. 


Earth Spirits. 


Rock us softly, 


Agreed ; allowed ! 


Lest it be all m vain. 


We gather out our natures like a cloud. 




And thus fulfil their lightnings 1 Thus, 
and thus ! 


Love voices passing; 


O we live, O we live— 


Hearken, O hearken to us I 


And this life we would vetrieve, 




Is a faithful thing apart. 


First Spirit. 


Which we love in, heart to heart, 


As the storm-wind blows Lleakly from 


Until one heart fitteth twaui. 


the norland, 


' Wilt thou be one with me ? ' 


As the snow-wind beats blindly on the 


' I will be one with thee ! ' 


moorland. 


' Ha, ha !— we love and live I ' 


As the simoon drives hot across the 


Alas ! ye love nnd die 1 


desert. 


Shriek— who shall reply? 


As the thunder roars deep in the Un- 


For is it not loved in vain ? 


measured, 




As the torrent tears the ocean-world to 


Infant Voices passing. 


atoms. 


Rock us softly, 


As the whirlpool grinds itfathom^-belcw 


Though it be all in vain. 


fathoms. 




Thus,— and thus I 


Aged voices passing. 




O we live, O we live — 


.'Second Spirit. 


And this life we would survive, 


As the yellow toad, that spits its poisoi\ 


Is a gloomy thing and brief, 


chilly, 


Which consummated in grief. 


As the ticer, in the jungle crouehins 


Leaveth ashes for all gair.. 


stilly, 


Is it not all in vain ? 


As the wild boar, with ragged tusks of 


Infant voices passing. 


anger, 
As the wolf-dog, with teeth of glittering- 


Rock us softly. 


clangour. 


Though it be all in vain. 


As the vultures that scream against the 




thunder, 


Voices die away. 


As the owlets that sit and moan asunder. 


Earth Spirits. And bringer of the 


Thus, — and thus ! 


curse upon all these. 


Eiie. Adam ! God ! 


Eve. The voices cf foreshown Hu» 


Adam. Cruel, unrelenting Spirits I 


manity 


By the power in me of the .sovran soul 


Die off ;^so let me die. 


Whose thoughts keep pace ycK. with the 


Adam. So let us die. 


angel's march, 


When God's will soundeth the right 


1 charge you into silence — trample you 


hour of death. 


Down to obedience.— I am king of you I 


Ear t it Spirits. And bringer of the 




cur.se upon all these. 


Earth Spirits. 


Eve. -spirits 1 by the gentleness 


Ha, ha ! thou art king 1 


ye use 


With a sin for a crown, 


In winds at night, and floating clouds at 


And .a soul undone : 


noon. 


Thou, the antagonized. 


In gliding waters under lily leaves. 


Tortured ind agonized. 


In chirp of crickets, and the settling 


Held in the ring 


hush 


Of the zodiac ! 


A bird makes in her nest with feet and 


Now, king, beware ! 


wings, — 


We are many and strong 


Fulfil your natures now 1 


Whom thou standest amonjj,- 



194 --^ DKAAfA 


OF EXILE, 


And we pass on the air, 


Christ. Spirits of the earth, 


And we stifle tliee back. 


I meet you with rebuke for tl.e reproach 


And we multiply where 


And cruel and unmitigated blame 


Thou wouldst trample us down 


Ye cast upon your masters. True, they 


From rights of our own 


have sinned ; 


To an utter wrong— 


And true their sin is reckoned into loss 


And, from under the feet of thy scorn. 


For you the sinless. Yet, your inno- 


O forlorn ! 


cence. 


We shall spring tip like corn, 


Which of you praises ? since Cod made 


And our stubble be strong. 


your acts 


Adiim, God, there is power in Thee I 


Inherent in your lives, and bound your 


1 make appeal 


hands 


Unto thy kingship. 


With instincts and imperious .sanctities 


Eiie. 'I'here is pity in Thee, 


From self-defacement ? Which of you 


O sinned against, great Cod ! — My seed. 


disdains 


my seed. 


These .sinners who in falling proved their 


There is hope set on Thee — I cry to 


height 


thee. 


Above you by their liberty to fall? 


Thou mystic seed that shah be 1 — leave 


And which of you complains of loss by 


us not 


them. 


In agony beyond what we can bear, 


For whose delight and use ychave your 


Fallen in debasement below thimder- 


life 


mark 


And honor in creation ? Ponder it I 


A mark for scorning^taimteJ and per- 


This regent and sublime Humanity, 


plext 


Though f.dlen, c.\ceeds you ! this shall 


By all these creatures we ruled yester- 


film your sun, 


day. 


Shall hunt your lightning to its lair of 


Whom thou, Lord, rulestalway. O my 


cloud. 


seed. 


Turn back your ;iv2rs, footpath all your 


Through the tempestuous years that rain 


seas, 


so thick 


Lay fiat your forests, master with a look 


Betwixt my ghostly vision and thy face. 


Your lion at his fasting, and fetch down 


Let me have token ! for my soul is 


Your eagle flying. N; y. without this 


bruised 


law 


Before the serpent's head is. 


Of mandcm, yc would perish, — beast by 




beast 


\^A vision of Christ appears in the 


Devouring ; tree by tree, with stran- 
gling roots 
And trunks set tuskwise. Ye would 


midst of t!ic zodiac, whick pales he- 


yore the heavenly light. The Earth 


Spirits groxu grayer and fainter. ■ 


gaze on God 




With imperceptive blankness up the 


Christ. I am heke ! 


stars. 


Adam. This is God ! — Curse us not. 


And mutter, 'Why, God, hast thou 


God, any more. 


made us thus ?' 


Eve. B'lt gazing so — so — with omni- 


And pining lo a sallow idiocy 


fic eyes. 


Stagger up blindly against the ends c< 


Lift mv soul upward till it touch tliv 


life; 


feet ! 


Then stagnate into rottenness and drop 


Or lift it only,— not toseem too proud, — 


Heavilv — poor, dead matter — piecemeal 


To the low height of some good angel's 


down 


fect- 


The abysmal space<;— like a little stone 


For such tc tread on when h; walketh 


Let fill to chaos. Therefore over you 


straight" ■ 


Receive man's sceptre, — therefore be 


And thy lips praise bim. 


content 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



'95 



Tp minister with voluntary grace 
And melancholy pardon, every rite 
And fanctiou ni you, to tne huniaa hand. 
Be ye to man as angeU arc to Ciod, 
Servants in pleasure, singers cf delight, 
Suggesters to his soul of higher things 
Than any of yonr highest. So at last. 
He shall look round on you with lids too 

straight 
To hold the grateful tears, and thank you 

well ; 
And bless you when he prays liis secret 

prayers, 
And praisa you when he sings his open 

song> 
For the clear song-note he has learnt in 

you 
Of purifying sweetness ; and e.\tend 
Across your head his golden fantasies 
Which glorify you into soul from sense ! 
Go serve him for such price. That not 

in vain 
Nor yet ignobly ye shall serve, I place 
My word here for an oath, mine oath 

for act 
To be hereafter. In the name of which 
Perfect redemption and perpetual grace, 
I bless you through the hope and through 

the peace , 

Which are mine, — to the Love, which is 

myself. 
Eve. Speak on still, Christ. Albeit 

thou bless me not 
In set words, I am blessed in hearkening 

thee — 
Speak, Christ. 

Christ. Speak, Adam. Bless the 

woman, man — 
It is thine office. 

Adam. Mother of the world, 

Take heart before this Presence. Lo ! 

my voice. 
Which, naming erst the creatures, did 

express, 
God breathing through my breath, — the 

attributes 
And instincts of each creature in its 

name ; 
Floats to the same afilatus, — floats and 

heaves 
Like a water-weed that opens to a 

wave, 
A full-leaved prophecy affecting thee. 



Out fairly and wide. Henceforward, 

rise, aspire 
To all the calms and magnanimities. 
The lolty uses and the noble ends, 
'ihc sanctified devotion and full work. 
To which tliou art elect lorevermore. 
First woman, wife, and mother. 

Ezic. And first in sin. 

Adam. And also tlie sole bearer of 

the Seed 
Whereby sin dieth ! Raise the majes- 
ties 
Of thy disconsolate brows, O well-be^' 

loved. 
And front with level eyelids the To 

come. 
And all the dark o' the world. Rise, 

woman, rise'' 
To thy peculiar and best altitudes 
Of doing good and of enduring ill. 
Of comforting for ill, and teaching 

good. 
And reconciling all that ill and good 
Unto the patience of a constant hope, — 
Rise with thy daughters I If sin come 

by thee. 
And by sin, death, — the ransom-right- 
eousness, 
The heavenly life and compensative 

rest 
Shall come by means of t'.iee. If wo by 

thee 
Had issued to the world, thou shalt go 

forth 
An angel of the wo thou didst achieve ; 
Found acceptable to the world instead 
Of others of that name, of whose bright 

steps 
Thy deed stripped bare the hills. Be 

satisfied ; 
Something thou hast to bear through 

womanhood — 
Peculiar suffering answering to the sin : 
Some pang paid down for each new liu- 

man life ; 
Some weariness in guarding such a 

life- 
Some coldness from the guarded ; some' 

mistrust 
From those thou hast too well served ; 

from those beloved 
Too loyally some treason : feebleness 
Within thy heart, and cruelty without : 



ipe 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



And pressures cf an alien tj'ranny 
With Its dynastic reasons of larger Vjones 
And stronger sinews. But, go to ! thy 

love 
Shall chant itself its own beatitudes 
After its own life-working. A cliild's 

kiss 
Set on thy sighing lips, shall make thee 

glad : 
A poor man served by thee, shall make 

thee rich ; 
A sick man helped by thee, shall make 

thee strong ; 
Thou shalt be served thyself by every 

sense 
Of service which thou rendcrest. Such 

a crown 
I set upon thy head, — Christ witnessing 
With looks of prompting love — to keep 

thee clear 
Of all reproach against the sin foregone. 
From all the generations which succeed. 
Thy hand which plucked the apple, I 

clasp clo.se ; 
Thy lips which spake wrong counsel, I 

kiss close, 
I bless thee in the name of Paradi.se 
And by the memory of Edenic joys 
Forfeit and lost ; by tliat last cypress tree 
Green at the gate, which thrilled as we 

came out ; 
And by the blessed nightingale which 

threw 
Its melancholy music after us ; — 
And by the flowers, whose spirits full of 

smells 
Did follovv softly, plucking us behind 
Back to the gradual banks and vernal 

bowers 
And four-fold river-courses: — by all 

these, 
I bless thee to the contraries of these : 
I bless thee to the desert and the thorns, 
To the elemental change and turbulence. 
And to the roar of the estranged beasts. 
And to the solemn dignities of grief, — 
To each one of these ends, — and to this 

END 

Of Death and the hereafter ! 

E';'e. I accept 

For me and for my daughters this high 

part 
Which lowly shall be counted. Noble 

work 



Shall hold me in ihe place of garden- 
rest ; 

And in the place of Eden's lost delight 

Wortliy endurance of permitted pain ; 

While on my longest patience there shall 
wait 

Death's speechless angel, .smiling in the 
east 

Whence cometh the cold wind. I bow 
myself 

Humbly henceforward on the ill T did. 

That humbleness may keep it in the 
.shade. 

Shall It be so ? Shall / smile, saying so ? 

seed ! O king ! U God, who shalt be 

seed, — 
What shall I say ? As Eden's fountains 

swelled 
Brightly betwixt their banks, so swells 

my soul 
I3etwi.\t Ihy love and power ! 

And, sweetest thoughts 
Of foregone Eden ! now, for the first 

time 
Since God said ' Adam,' walking through 

the trees, 

1 dare to pluck you as I plucked crc- 

while 
The lily or pink, the rose or heliotrope. 
So pluck I you — so largely — with both 

hands, 
And throw you forward on the outer 

earth 
Wherein we are cast out. to .sweeten it. 
Aciain. As thou, Christ, to illume it, 

boldest Heaven 
Broadly above our heads. 

[ TheQ.nxu'-.'V is gradually transfigured 
tluring thefollaiving phrases of dia- 
logue, into humanity and suffering. 

Eve. O Saviour Christ, 

Thou standest mute in glory, like the 
sun. 
Adam. We worship in Thy silence. 

Saviour Christ. 
Eve. Thy brows grow grander with 
a forecast wo, — 
Diviner, with tli possible of Death ! 
We worship in thy sorrow, Saviour 
Christ. 
Adam How do thy clear, still eyes 
transpierce our souls. 



^ DRAMA OF EXILE. 



J 97 



As gazing through them toward the 

Kather-thione 
In a pathetical, full Deity, 
serenely as the stars gaze through the 

air 
Straight on each other. 

Eve. O pathetic Christ, 

Thou standest mute in glory, like the 

moon. 
Christ. Eternity stands alway front- 

nig God ; 
A stern colossal image, with blind eyes 
And grand dim lips that murmur ever- 
more 
God, God, God ! While the rush of 

life and death. 
The roar of act and thought, of evil and 

good. 
The avalanches of the ruining worlds 
Tolling down space, — the new world's 

genesis 
Budding in fire, — the gradual humming 

growth 
Of the ancient atoms and first forms of 

earth, 
The slow procession of the swathing seas 
And firmamental waters, — and the noise 
Of the broad, fluent strata of pure airs, — 
All these flow onward in the intervals 
Of that reiterated sound of — God ! 
Which WORD, innumerous angels 

straightway lift 
Wide on celestial altitudes of song 
And choral adoration, and then drop 
I'he burden softly, shutting the last notes 
In silver wings. Howbeit in the noon 

of time 
Eternity shall wax as dumb as Death, 
While a new voice beneath the spheres 

shall cry, 
' God ! Why hast thou forsaken me, 

my God V 
And not a voice in heaven shall answer 

it. 
\The transfigtiration is ci^inplcte in 
silence. 

Adam. Thy speech is of the Heav- 

enlies ; yet, O Christ, 
Awfully human are thy voice and face ! 
Eve. i\Iy nature overcomes me from 

thine eyes. 
Christ. In the set noon cf time, shall 

one from Heaven, 



An angel fresh from looking upon God, 
Descend before a woman, blessing her 
With perfect benediction of pure love. 
For all the world in all its elements ; 
For all the creatures of earth, air, and 

sea ; 
For all men in the body and in the soul. 
Unto all ends of glory and sanctity. 
Eve. O pale, pathetic Christ — I wor- 
ship thee ! 
I thank thee for that woman ! 

Christ. 'Ihen, at last, 

I, wrapping round me your humanity. 
Which being sustained, shall neither 

break nor burn 
Beneath the fire of Godhead, will tread 

earth. 
And ransom you and it, and set strong 

peace 
Betwixt you and its creatures. With 

my pangs 
I will confront your sins : and since 

those sins 
Have .sunken to all nature's heart from 

yours. 
The tears of my clean soul shal] follow 

them 
And set a holy passion to work clear 
Absolute consecration. In my brow 
Of kingly whitene.ss, shall be crowned 

anew 
Your discrowned human nature. Look 

on me ! 
As I shall be uplifted on a cross 
In darkness of eclipse and anguish dread. 
So shall I lift up in my pierced hands. 
Not into dark, but light — not unto death. 
But life, beyond the reach of guilt and 

! grief. 
The whole creation. Henceforth in my 

name 
Take courage, O thou woman, — man, 

take hope ! 
Your grave shall be as smooth as Eden's 

sward. 
Beneath the steps of your prospective 

thoughts ; 
And one step past it a new Eden-gate 
Shall open on a hinge of harmony. 
And let you through to mercy. Ye 

shall fall 
No more, within that Eden, nor pass out 
Any more from it. In which hope, move 
on, 



igS 



A DKAMA OF EXILE. 



First sinners and first mourners. Live 
and love,— 

Doing both nobly, because lowlily ; 

Live and work, strongly, — because pa- 
tiently ! 

And for the deed of death, trust it to 
God, 

'J'hat it be well done, unrepented of. 

And not to loss. And thence with con- 
stant prayers 

Fasten your souls so high, that con- 
stantly 

The smile of your heroic cheer may 
float 

-\bove all floods of earthly agonies. 

Purification being the joy of pain ! 

The vision of Christ vanishes. Adam 
and Eve stajid in an ecstasy. The 
earth-zodiac pales away, shade by 
shade, as tlie stars, star by star, 
s/iine out in tlie sisy : and the fol- 
lo^uing chant from tlie two Earth- 
spirits (as they sweep bac/; into tlie 
zodiac and disappear luith it) ac- 
companies the process of change. 

Earth Spirits. 

By the mighty word thus spoken 

Both for living and for dying. 
We, our homage-oath once broken. 
Fasten back again in sighing ; 
And the creatures and the elements 
renew their covenanting. 
Here, forgive us all our .scorning ; 
Here, wc promise milder duty ; 
f And the evening and the morning 

Shall re-organize in beauty 
A sabbath day of sabbath joy, for uni- 
versal chanting. 

And if, still, this melancholy 

May be strong to overcome us ; 
If this mortal and imholy 

We still fail to cast out from us, — 
And we turn upon you, unaware, your 
own dark influences ; 
If ye tremble when surrounded 

By our forest pine and palm trees ; 
If we cannot cure the wounded 
With our gum-trees and our balm- 
trees. 
And if your souls all mournfully sit 
down among your senses, — 



Yet, O mortals, do not fear its. 

We are gentle in our languor ; 
And more good ye shall have near us 
Than any pain or anger : 
And our God's refracted blessing in our 
blessing shall be given ! 
Bj' the desert's endless vigil 

We will solemnize your passions ; 
By the wheel of the black eagle 
We will teach you exaltations. 
When he sails against the wind, to tlie 
white spot up in Heaven. 

Ye shall find us tender nurses 

To your weariness of nature ; 
And our hands .shall stroke the curse's 
Dreary furrows from the creature. 
Till your bodies shall lie smooth in 
death, and straight and slumber- 
ful : 
Then, a couch we will provide you 
Where no summer heat shall daz- 
zle ; 
Strewing en you and beside you 
Thyme and rosemary and basil — 
And the yew-tree shall grow overhead 
to keep all safe and cool. 

Till the Holy blood awaited 

Shall be chrism around us running. 
Whereby, newly-consecrated 

We shall leap up in God's sunniug. 
To join the .spheric company which 
purer worlds assemble ; 
While, renewed by new evangels. 

Soul-consummated, made glorious. 
Ye shall brighten past the angels — 
Ye shall kneel to Christ victorious ; 
And the rays around His feet beneath 
your sobbing lips, shall tremble. 

[ The phantastic vision //as all passed : 
the earth-zodiac has broken like a 
belt, and dissolved /rojn the desert. 
The Earth Spirits vanish ; and the 
stars shine out above. 

CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS. 

While Ad.^m and Eve advance into 
the desert, hand /« hand. 
Hear our heavenly promise 

Through your mortal passion ! 
Love ye shall have from us, 
In a pure relation ! 



A VKAMA OF EXILE. 



As a fish or bird 

Swims or flies, if moving. 
We unseen are heard 

To live on by loving. 
Far above the glances 

Oi" your eager eyes. 
Listen ! we are loving ! 
Listen, through man's ignorances — 
Listen, through God's mysteries — 
Listen down the heart of things. 
Ye shall hear our mj'stic wings 
Murmurous with loving! 

Through the opal door, 

Listen evermore 

How we live by loving 1 

First semichorus. 

When your bodies therefore, 
Reach the grave their goal. 
Softly will we care for 

Each enfranchisea soul! 
Softly an<l unlothly 

Through the door of opal 
Toward the Heavenly people. 
Floated on a minor fi..e 
Into the full chant divine. 

We will draw you smoothly,— 
While the human in the minor 
Makes the harmony diviner; 
Listen to our loving I 

Second semichorus . 
There a sough of glory 

Shall breathe on you as you come, 
Ruffling round the doorway 
All the light of angeldom. 
From the empyrean centre 

Heavenly voices shall repeat — 
' Souls redeemed and pardoned, enter ; 

For the chrism on you is sweet.' 
And every angel in the place 
Lowlily shall bow his face. 

Folded fair on softened sounds. 
Because upo.i your hands and feet 

He images his Master's wounds : 
Listen to our loving ! 

First semichorus. 
So, in the universe's 

Consummated undoing. 
Our seraphs of white mercies 

Shall hover round the ruin ! 
Their wings shall stream upon the flame 
As if incorporate of the same 



In elemental fusion ; 
And calm their faces shall burn out 
With a pale and mastering thought. 
And a steadtast looking ol desire 
From out between the clefts of fire, — 
While ihey cry, in the Holy's name. 

To the final Restitution 1 
Listen to our loving ! 

Sccind semichorus. 
So, when the day of God is 

'I'o the thick graves accompted ; 
Awaking the dead bodies. 

The angel of I he trumpet 
Shall split and shatter the earth 

To the rooLs of the grave 
Which never before were slackened 

And quicken the charnel birth 
With his blast so ciearand brave ; 

'lill the Dead shall start and stand 
erect 
And every face of the burial-place 

Shall the awful, single look reflect. 
Wherewith he them awakened. 

Listen to our loving ! 

First semiclioriis. 
But wild is the horse of Death ! 
He will leap up wild at the clamour 

Above and beneath ; 

And where is his 'lamer 

On that last day. 

When he crioth. Ha, ha! 

To the trumpet's blare. 
And pawetli the earth's Aceldama ? 

When he tosseth his head. 

The drear-white steed. 
And ghastily champeth the last moon- 



Can lead him away. 
That the living may rule for the Dead ? 

Second seviichorus. 
Yet a Tamek shall be found ! 
One more bright than seraph crowned. 
And more strong than cherub bold ; 
Elder, too, than angel old. 
By his gray eternities. 
He shall master and surprise 

The steed of Death. 
For He is strong, and He is fain ; 
He shall quell him with a breath. 
And shall lead him where He will. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE.. 



With a whisper in the car. 

Full of fear — 
And a hand upon the mane. 

Grand and still. 

First seinichorus. 
Through the flats of Hades where the 

souls assemble 
He will guide the Death-steed calm 

between their ranks ; 
While, like beaten dogs, they a little 

moan and tremble 
To see the darkness curdle from the 

horse's glittering flanks. 
Through the flats of Hades, where the 

dreary shade is, 
Up the steep of Heaven, will the Tamer 

guide the steed, — 
Up the spheric circles — circle above 

circle. 
We who count the ages, shall count the 

tolling tread — ■ 
Every hoof-fall striking a blinder, 

blanker sparkle 
From the stony orbs, which shall show 

as they were dead. 

Second seinichorus. 

All the way the Death-steed with toil- 
ing hoofs shall travel. 

Ashen gray the planets shall be motion- 
less as stones ; 

Looiely shall the systems eject their parts 
coeval, — 

Stagnant in the spaces shall float the 
pallid moons ; 

Suns that touch their apogees, reeling 
from their level. 

Shall run back on their a.vles, in wild, 
low, broken tunes. 

Chorus. 
Up against the arches of the crystal 

ceiling. 
From the horse's nostrils shall steam the 

blurting breath ; 
Up between the angels pale with silent 

feeling, 
Wdl the Tamer, calmly, lead the horse 

of death. 

Seinichorus. 
Cleaving all that silence, cleaving all 
Uiat glory, 



I Will the Tamer lead him straightway to 

the Throne ; 
' Look out, U Jehov.ah, to this I bring 
I before Thee 

With a hand nail-pierced, — I who am 

thy Son.' 
Then the Eye Divinest, from the Deep- 
est, flaming, 
On the mystic courser, shall look out in 

fire : 
Blind the beast shall stagger wliere It 

overcame him. 
Meek as lamb at pasture — bloodle.=s in 

desire — 
Down the beast shall shiver — slain amid 

the taming — 
And, by Life essential, the phantasm 

Death expire. 

Chorus. 
Listen, man. through life and death. 
Through the dust and through the 

breath. 
Listen down the heart of things ! 
Ye shall hear our mystic wings 
Murmurous with loving. 
A I'oice from below. Gabriel, thou 

Gabriel 1 
A I'oice from above. What wouldst 

thou with me ''. 
First Voice. 1 heard thy voice sound 
in the angels' song : 
And I would give thee question. 

Second Voice. Question me. 

First Voice. Why have I called thrice 
to my Morning-star 
And had no answer ? All the stars are 

out. 
And answer in their places. Only in 

vain 
I cast my voice against the outer rays 
Of my star, shut in light behind the sun. 
No more reply than from a breaking 

string, 
Breaking when touched. Or is she not 

my star? 
Where is my star — my star ? Have ye 

cast down 
Her glory like my glory ? Has she 

waxed 
Mortal, like Adam ? Has she learnt to 

hate 
Like any angel ? 

Second I 'oice. .She is sad for thee : 




THE LOST BOWEE. 



THE LOST BOWER. 



All things grow sadder to thee, one by 
one. 
Chorus. Live, work on, O Earthy ! 
By the Actual's tension, 
Speea tlie arrow worthy 

Of a pure ascension. 
From the low earlh round you. 

Reach the heights above you ; 
From the stripes that wound you, 

Seek the loves that love you ! 
God's divinest burneth plain 

Through the crystal diaphane 
Of our loves that love you. 
First V^oice Gabriel, O Gabriel ! 
Second Voice. What wouldst thou 

with me ? i 
First Voice. Is it true, O thou Ga- 
briel, that the crown 
«!)f sorrow which I claimed, another 

claims '? 
That He claims th/;t too ? 

Second Voice. Lpst one, it is true. 

First Voice. That He will be an 
e.\ile from His Heaven, 
To lead those exiles homewt.rd ? 

Second Voice. It is true. 

First Voice. That He will be an 
exile by His will. 
As I by mine election ! 

Second Voice. It is true. 

First Voice. That / shall stand sole 
e,\ile finally, — 
Made desolate for fruition ? 

Second Voice. It is true. 

First 'Voice. Gabriel I 
Second Voice. I hearken. 

First I'oice. It is true besides — 

Aright true — that mine orient star will 

give 
Her name of ' Bright and INIorning-Star' 

to Him, — 
And take the fairness of his virtue back, 
To cover loss and sadness 't 

Second Voice. It is true. 

First Voice. UNtrue, IjNtrue ! O 
Morning-star ! O IiIine ! 
"vVho sittest secret in a veil of light 
Far up the starry spaces, s?t.y,—U}itrne.' 
Speak but so loud as doth a wasted 

moon 
To Tyrrhene waters ! I am Lucifer — 

[A J>a7ise. Silence in the stars. 
All ^/aiigs grow sadder to me, one by 
one. 



Ang-el chorus. 

Exiled human creatures, 

Let your hope grow larger 
Larger grows the vision 

Ot the new delight. 
From this chain ot ^Nature's, 

God is the Discharger ; 
And the Actual prison 

Opens to your sight. 

Scmichorus. 
Calm the stars and golden. 

In a light exceeding : 
What their rays have measured. 

Let your feet fultil ! 
These are stars beholden 

By your eyes in Eden ; 
Yet, across the desert. 

See them shining still. 

Chorus. Future joy and far light 

Working such relations, 
Hear us singing gently 

Exiled is tiot lost! 
God, above the starlight, 

God, above the patience. 
Shall at last present ye 

Guerdons worth the cost. 
Patiently enduring. 

Painfully surrounded. 
Listen how we love you — 

Hope the uttermost — 
Waiting for that curing 

Which exalts the wounded. 
Hear us sing above you — 

Exiled, but not lost I 

\The stars shine on brightly, -wliile 
Adam and Eve pursue tlieir -May 
into ihe/ar wilderness. The7-e is a 
sound through the silence, as of the 
falling tears of an angel. 



THE LOST BOWER. 

In the pleasant orchard closes, 
' God bless all our gains,' say we ; 
But ' May God bless all our losses ' 
Better suits with our degree 
Listen gentle — ay, and simple ! Listen 
children on the knee ! 



THE LOST r.on'KR. 



Green the land is where my daily 
Steps iii.jocund childhood played — 
^ Dimpled close with hdl and valley. 
Dappled very close with shade ; 
I Summer-snow of apple blossoms rmining 
up from glade to glade. 

There is one hill I see nearer. 
In my vision of the rest ; 
And a little wood seems clearer, 
As it climbcth from the west, 
Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to 
the airy upland crest. 

Small the wood is, green with hazels, 

And, completing the ascent. 

Where the wmd blows and sun 

dazzles. 
Thrills in leafy tremblement ; 
Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth 

quickly through content. 

Not a step the wood advances 
O'er the open hill-top's bound : 
There, in green arrest, the branches 
See their image on the ground : 
You may walk beneath them smiling, 
glad with sight and glad with sound. 

For you hearken on your right hand, 
How the birds do leap and call 
In the greenwood, out of sight and 
Out of reach and fear of all ; 
And the squirrels crack the filberts, 
through their cheerful madrigal. 

On your left, the sheep are cropping 
The slant gra.ss and daisies pale ; 
And five apple-trees stand dropping 
Separate shadows toward the vale, 
Over which, in choral silence, the hills 
look you their ' All hail !' 

Far out, kindled by each other. 
Shining hills on hills arise ; 
Close as brother leans to brother. 
When they press beneath the eyes 
Of some father praying blessings from 
the gifts of paradise. 

While beyond, above them mounted, 
And above their woods also, 
Malvern hills, for mountains counted 



Not unduly, loom a-row — 
Keepers of Piers Plowman's visions, 
through the sunshine and thesnow.* 

Yet in childhood little prized I 
That fair walk and far survey : 
'Twas a straight walk, unadvised by 
The least mischief worth a nay — 
Up and down — as dull as grammar on 
the eve of holiday. 

But the wood, all close and clenching 
Bough in bough and root in root,— 
No more sky (for over-branching) 
At your head than at your foot. — 
Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a 
glamour past dispute. 

Few and broken paths showed through 

it. 
Where the sheep had tried to run, — 
Forced with snowy wool to strew it 
Round the thickets, when anon 
They with silly thorn - pricked noses, 

bleated back into the sun. 

But my childish heart heat stronger 
Than those thickets dared to grow : 
/could pierce them! / could longer 
Travel on, methought, than so. 
Sheep for sheep paths ! braver children 
climb and creep where they would go. 

And the poets wander, said I, 
Over places .",11 as rude ! 
Bold Rinaldo's lovely lady 
Sat to meet him in a wood — 
Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out 
pure with solitude. 

And if Chaucer had not travelled 
Through a forest by a well. 
He had never dreamt nor marvelled 
At those ladies fair and fell 
Who lived smiling without loving, ii) 
their island-citadel. 

Thus I thought of the old singers. 
And took courage from their song, 
I'lll my little struggling fingers 

• The Malvern HiUs of Wnrcfst^rsl.iir .i.c 

the B.-elle ol' l.allKlsui'le'a vi«l,,hi!, iiii n» 

pieseiit the earliest classic gniunil •)! lineli>,|i 



THE LOST BOH'ER. 



203 



Tore asunder gyve and thong 
Of the brambles which entrapped me, 
and the barrier branches strong. 

On a day, such pastime keeping, 
With a fawn's heart debonaire, 
Under-crawhng, overleapmg, 
Thorns that prick and boughs that 
bear, 
1 stood suddenly astonished — I was glad- 
dened imaware. 

From the place I stood in, floated 
Back the covert dim and close ; 
And the open ground was coated 
Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, 
And the blue-bcU's purple presence 
signed it worthily across. 

Here a linden-tree stood, brightening 
All adown its silver rind ; 
For as some trees draw the lightning. 
So this tree, unto my mind. 
Drew to earth the blesse . sunshine from 
the sky where it was shrined. 

Tall the linden-tree, and near it 
An old hasvthorn also grew ; 
And wood-ivy like a spirit 
Hovered dimly round the two. 
Shaping thence that Bower of beauty 
which I sing of thus to you. 

'Twas a bower for garden fitter 
Than for any woodland wide. 
Though a fresh and dewy glitter 
Struck it through f.'om side to side. 
Shaped and shaven was the freshness, 
as by garden-cunning plied. 

Oh, a lady might have come there, 
Hooded fairly like her hawk. 
With a book or lute in summer. 
And a hope of sweeter talk, — 
Listening less to her own music, than for 
footsteps on the walk. 

But that bovver appeared a marvel 
In the wildnesi of the place ! 
With such seeming art and travail. 
Finely fixed and fitted was 
Leaf to leaf, the dark-green ivy, to the 
summit from the base. 



And the ivy, veined and glossy. 
Was inwrought with eglantine ; 
And the wild-hop fibred closely. 
And the large-leaved columbine. 
Arch of door and window mullion, did 
) right sylvanly entwine. 

Rose-trees either side the door were 
Growing lythe and growing tall ; 
Each one set .a summer warder 
For the keeping of the hall, — 
With a red rose and a white rose, lean- 
ing, nodding at the wall. 

As I entered — rriosses hushing 
Stole all noises from my foot ; 
And a green elastic cushion. 
Clasped within the linden's root, 
Took me in a chair of silence, very rare 
and absolute. 

All the floor was paved with glory. 

Greenly, silently inlaid, 

Through quick motions made before 

me. 
With fair counterparts in shade 
Of the fair serrated ivy-leaves which 
slanted overhead. 

• Is such a pavement in a palace V 
So I questioned in my thought : 
The sun, shining through the chalice 
Of the red rose hung without. 
Threw within a red libation, like an 
answer to my doubt. 

At the same time, on the linen 

Of my childish lap there fell 

Two white may-leaves, downward 

winning 
Through the ceiling's miracle. 
From a blossom, like an angel, out of 
sight yet blessing well. 

Down to floor and up to ceiling. 
Quick I turned my childish face ; 
With an innocent appealing 
For the secret of the place. 
To the trees which surely knew it, !n 
partaking of the grace. 

Where's no foot of human creature. 
How could reach a human hand ? 
And if this be work of nature. 



THE LOST Don' ER. 



Why hn-. nnturc turnea ^<3 bland, 
lireaking off from other wild work ? It 
was hard to understand. 

Wa'j she weary of rough-doing, 
Of the bramble and the thorn? 
Did she pause in tender ruing. 
Here, of all her sylvan scorn? 
Oi, in mock of art's deceiving, was tbe 
sudden mildness worn ? 

Or could the same bower (I fancied) 
Be the work of Dryad strong ; 
Who, surviving all that chanced 
In the world's old pagan wrong. 
Lay hid, feeding in the woodland on- the 
last true poet's s^ong ? 

Or was this the house of fairies, 
Left because of the rough ways, 
Unxssoiled by Ave Marys 
Which the passing pilgrim prays. 
And beyond St. Catherine's chiming on 
the blessed Sabbath days ? 

So, young muser, I sat listening 
To my fancy's wildest word- 
On a sudden, through the glistening 
Leaves around a little stirred. 
Came a sound, a sense of music, which 
was rather felt than heard. 

Softly, finely, it enwound me — 
From the world it shut me in, — 
Like a fountain falling round me. 
Which with silver waters thin 
Clips a little water Naiad sitting 
smdiugly within. 

Whence the music came, who know- 

eth? 
/know nothing. But indeed 
Pan or Faunus never blovveth 
So much sweetness from a reed. 
Which has sucked I'ne milk of waters 

at the oldest riverhead. 

Never lark the sun can w.aken 
With such sweetness ! when the lark. 
The high planets overtaking 
In tm- h.'lf evanished dark 
Cast his singing to tlieir suigins, like an 
arrow to the mark. 



Never nightingale so slngeth— . 
Oh I she leans on thorny tree, 
And her poet song she flingeth 
Over pain to victory ! 
Yet she never sings such music, — or she 
sings it not to me. 

Never blackbirds, never thrushes, 
Nor small finches sing as sweet. 
When the sun strikes through the 

bushes 
To their crimson clinging feet. 
And their pretty eyes look sideways to 

the summer heavens complete. 

If it luerc a bird, it seemed 
Most like Chaucer's, which, in .sooth. 
He of green and azure dreamed, 
While it sat in spirit-ruth 
On that bier of a crowned lady, singing 
nigh her silent mouth. 

If it were a bird ! — ah, sceptic. 
Give me ' Yea ' or give me ' Nay ' — 
Though my soul were nympholeptic. 
As I heard that virelay. 
You may stoop your pride to pardon, 
for my sin is far away. 

I rose up in exaltation 
And an inward trembling heat. 
And (it seemed' in geste of passion 
Dropped the music to my feet. 
Like a garment rustling downwards ! — 
such a silence followed it. 

Heart and head beat through the 

quiet. 
Full and heavily, though .slower; 
In the song, I think, and by it. 
Mystic Presences of power 
Had up-snatched me to the Timeless, 

then returned me to the Hour. 

In a child-.abstraction lifted. 
Straightway from the bower I past ; 
Foot and soul being dimly drifted 
Through tlie greenwood, till, at last. 
In the hill-top's open sunshine, 1 all 
consciously was cast. 

Face to face with the true mountains, 
I stood silently and still ; 



THE LOST DOIVER. 



Drawing strength for fancy's daunt- 

ings. 
From the air about the hill, 
And from Nature's open mercies, and 
most debonair goodwill. 

Oh ! the golden-hearted daisies 
Witnessed there, before my youth, 
I'o the truth of tlnngs with praises 
To the beauty of the truth : 
And I woke to Nature's real, laughmg 
joyfully for both. 

And I .said within me, laughing, 
1 have found a bower to-day, 
A green lusus — fashioned half in 
Chance, and half in Nature's play — 
And a little bird sings nigh it, 1 will 
nevermore missay. 

Henceforth / will be the fairy 
Of this bower, not built by one ; 
I will go there sad or merry. 
With each morning's benison : 
And the bird shall be my harper in the 
dream-hall I have won. 

So I said. But the next morning, 
( — Child, look up into my face — 
'Ware, oh sceptic, of your scorning ! 
This is truth in its pure grace ;) 
The ne.xt morning, all had vanished, or 
my wandering missed the place. 

Bring an oalh most sylvan holy. 
And upon it swear me true — 
By the wind-bells swinging slowly 
Their mute curfews in the dew — 
By the advent of the snow-drop — by the 
rosemary and rue, — 

I affirm by all or ■Any, 
Let the cause be charm or chance. 
That my wandering searches many 
Missed the bower of my romance — 
That I nevermore upon it, turned my 
mortal countenance. 

I affirm that, since I lost it. 
Never bower has seemed so fair — 
Never garden-creeper crossed it. 
With so deft and brave an air — 
Never bird sung in ihe sr.mmer, as I saw 
and heard then; there. 



Dny by day, with new desire, 
'loward my wood I ran m faith — 
Under leaf and over briar — 
Through ihc thickets, out of breath — 
Like the prince who rescued Beauty 
from the sleep as long as death. 

But his sword of mettle clashed. 
And his arm smote strong, 1 ween ; 
And her dreaming spirit flashed 
Through her body's fair white screen. 
And the light thereof might guide him 
up the cedar alleys green. 

But for me, I saw no splendor — 
All my sword was my child-heart ; 
And the wood refused surrender 
Of that bower it held apart. 
Safe as ffidipus's grave-place, 'mid Co' 
lone's olives swart. 

As Aladdin sought the basements 
His fair palace rose upon. 
And the four and twenty casements 
Which gave answers to the sun ; 
So, ill wiklerment of gazing I looked up, 
and I looked down. 

Years have vanished since as wholly 
As thj litle bower did then ; 
And you call it tender folly 
That such thoughts should come again? 
Ah ! 1 cannot change this sighing for 
your smiling, brother-men 1 

For this loss it did prefigure 
Other loss of better good. 
When my soul, in spirit-vigor. 
And in ripened womanhood. 
Fell from visions of more beauty than 
an arbor in a wood. 

I have lost — oh many a pleasure — 
Many a hope and many a power — 
Studious health and merry leisure — 
The first dew on the first flower ! 
But the first of all my losses was the 
losing of the bower. 

I have lost the dream of Doing, 
And the other dream of Done — 
The first spring in the pursuing, 
The first pride in the Begun, — 
First recoil from incompletion, in the 
face of what is won — 



2o6 THE ROM AUNT OF THE PACE. 


Exhalntions in the far light. 


Through the finger; which, still sigh, 


Where some cottage only is — 


iiig. 


Mild dejections in the starlight. 


I press closely on mine eyes, — 


Which the sadder-hearted miss ; 


Clear as once beneath the sunshine, 1 


And the child-cheek blushing scarlet. 


behold the bower arise. 


for the very shame of bliss. 




' 


Springs the linden-tree as greenly. 


I have lost the sonnd child-sleeping 


Stroked with light adown its rind — 


Which the thunder could not break ; 


And the ivy-leaves serenely 


1 Something too of the strong leaping 


Each in either intertwined. 


Of the stagelike heart awake. 


And the rose-trees at the doorway, they 


Which the pale is low for keeping in the 


have neither grown nor pined. 


road it ought to take. 






From tho'^e overblown faint roses. 


Some respect to social fictions 


Not a leaf appeareth shed. 


Hath been also lost by me ; 


And that little bud discloses 


And some generous genuflexions, 


Not a thorn 's-breadth more of red. 


Wliich my spirit offered free 


For the winters and the summers which 


To the pleasant old conventions of our 


have pas,sed me overhead. 


false Humanity. 






And that music overfloweth. 


All my losses did I tell you, 


Sudden sweet, and sylvan eaves : 


Ye, perchance, would look away ; — 


Thrush or nightingale — who knoweth? 


Ye would answer me, ' Farewell ! 


Fay or Faunus — who believes? 


you 


But my he.art still trembles in me, to the 


Make sad company to-day ; 


trembling of the leaves. 


And your tears are faUing faster than 




the bitter words you say.' 


Is the bower lost, then ? Who sayeth 




That the bower indeed is lost? 


For God placed me like a dial 


Hark ! my spirit in it prayeth 


Jn the open ground, with power ; 


Through the sunshine and the frost,— 


And my heart had for its trial, 


And the prayer preserves it greenly, to 


All the sun and all the shower! 


the last and lutermost — 


And I suffered many losses; and my 




first was of the bower. 


Till another open for me 




In God's Eden-land unknown. 


Laugh you ? If that loss of mine be 


With an angel at the doorway. 


Of no heavy seeming weight — 


White with gazing at His Throne ; 


When the cone falls from the pine- 


.4nd a saint's voice in the palm-trees. 


tree. 


singing — 'All is lost . . and -moh !' 


The young children laugh thereat ; 




Yet the wind that struck it, riseth, and 
the tempest shall be great ! 






One who knew me in my childhood. 


THE ROMAUNT OF THE PACK, 


In the glamour and the game. 




Looking on me long and mild, would 


A KNIGHT of gallant deeds 


Never know me for the same. 


And a young page at his side 


Come, unchanging recollections, where 


From the holy war in Palestine 


those changes overcame. 


Did slow and thoughtful ride. 




As each were a palmer, and told for 


On this couch I weakly lie on. 


beads 


While I count my memories, — 


The dews of the eventide. 



THE ROMAU. 


Vr OF THE PAGE. 207 


• O young page,' said the knight. 


'And this, I meant to s,iy — 


■ A noble page art thou ! 


My lady's face shal' sh.i.fc 


Ihou fearest not to steep in blood 


As ladies' faces use, to greet 


I'he curls upon thy brow ; 


My Page from Palestine : 


And once in the tent, and twice in the 


Or, speak she fair, or prank she gay. 


She is no lady of mine. 


Didst ward me a mortal blow — ' 




'And this I meant to fear, — 


' O brave knight,' said the page, 


Her bower may suit thee ill ! 


' Or ere we hither came. 


For, sooth, in that same field and tent. 


We talked in tent, we talked in field 


Thy talk was somewhat still ; 


Of the bloody battle game : 


And fitter thy hand for thy knightly 


But here, below this greenwood bough. 


^F^^^\- 


I cannot speak the same. 


Than thy tongue for my lady's will.' 


' Our troop is far behind. 


Slowly and thankfully 


The woodland calm is new ; 


The young page bowed his head : 


Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled 


His large eyes seemed to muse a smile. 


hoofs. 


Until he blushed instead ; 


Tread deep the shadows through ; 


And no lady in her bower pardie. 


And in my mind, some blessing kind 


Could blush more sudden red — 


Is dropping with the dew. 


' Sir Knight, — thy lady's bower to me. 




Is suited well,' he said. 


• The woodland calm is pure — 




I cannot choose but have 


Beati, beati mcrtni ! 


A thought from these, o' the beecheii- 


From the convent on the sea. 


trees 


One mile off, or scarce as nigh, 


Which in our England wave ; 


Swells the dirge as clear and high 


And of the little finches fine 


As if that, over brake and lea. 


Which sang there, while i.i Palestine 


Bodily the wind did carry 


The warrior-hilt we drave. 


The great altar of St iVIary, 




And the fifty tapei-s burning o'er it. 


' Methinks, a moment gone, 


And the lady Abbess dead before it. 


I heard my mother pray ! 


And the chanting nuns whom yester* 


I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me 


week 


Wherein she passed away ; 


Fler voice did charge and bless — 


And I know the Heavens are leaning 


Clianting steady, chanting meek. 


down 


Chanting with a solemn breath 


To hear what 1 shall say.' 


Because that they are thinking less 




Upon the Dead than upon death ! 


The page spaKe calm and nigh 


Beati, beati, inortui ! 


As of no mean degree ; 


Now the vision in the sound 


Perhaps he felt in nature's broad 


Wheeleth on the wind around — 


Full heart, his own was free 


Now it sleepeth back, away — 


And the knight looked up to his lifted 


The uplands will not let it stay 


eye. 


To dark the western sun. 


Then answcrea smilingly: — 


Mortui ! — away at last, 




Or ere the page's blush is past ! 


'S'r Page, I pray your grace ! 


And the knight heard all, and the page 


Certes, 1 meant not so 


heard none. 


To cross your pastoral mood, sir page, 




With the crook of the battle-bow ; 


'A boon, thou noble knight. 


But a knight may speak of a lady's face, 1 


If ever I served thee ! 


1 ■ix ccn, in any mood or place, j 


Though thou art a knight and I am a 


If the grasses die or grow. I 


P-igt, 



so8 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 



Now grant a boon to me — 
And rcli mc sooth, if dark or bright, 
If Httle loved or loved aright. 

Be the face of thy ladye.' 

Gloomily looked the knight ; 

' As a son thou hast served me : 
And would to none I had granted boon. 

Except to only thee ! 
For haply then I should love aright, 
For then I ;hould know if dark or bright 

Were the face of ray ladye. 

• Yet ill it suits my knightly tongue 
To grudge lh:it granted boon : 

That heavy price from heart and life 
1 paid in silence down : 

The liand that claimed it, cleared in fine 

My father's fame : 1 swear by mine. 
That price was nobly won. 

' Earl Walter was a brave old earl, — 

He was my father's friend ; 
And wh;lc I rode the lists at court 

And little guessed the end, 
My noble father in his shroud. 
Against a slanderer lying loud, 

He rose up to defend. 

' O, calm, below the marble gray 
My father's dust was strown ! 

Oh, meek, above the marble gray 
His image prayed alone ! 

The slanderer lied — the wretch was 
brave, — 

For, looking up the minster-nave. 

He saw my father's knightly glaive 
Was changed from steel to stone. 

"But Earl Walter's glaive was steel. 
With a brave old hand to wear it ! 
And d.ished tlie lie back in the mouth 
Which lied against the godly truth 
And against the knightly merit : 
The slanderer, 'neath tlie avenger's heel. 
Struck up the dng?:er in appeal 
From .stealthy lie to brutal force — 
And o::t upon that traitor's corse 
\Vas yielded the true spirit. 

' 1 would my hand had fouglit that fight 

And justified rr.y f.ither ! 
1 v.'ould my heart had caught that wound 

And slept beside him rather 1 



I think it were a better thing 
Tiian nuirthered friend and marriage- 
ring 
Forced on my life together. 

' Wail shook Earl Walter's house— 

His true wife shed no tear — 
She lay upon her bed as mute 
As the earl did on his bier : 
Till — ' Ride, ride fast,' she said at last, 
' And bring the avenged son anear ! 
Ride fast — ride free, as a dart can flee : 
For white of blee with waiting for me 
Is the corse in the next charabere.' 

' I came — I knelt beside her bed — 
Her calm was worse than strife — 
' My husband, for thy father dear. 
Gave freely when thou wert not here 

His own and eke my life. 
A boon ! Of that sweet child we make 
An orphan for thy father's sake. 
Make thou, for ours, a wife.' 

' I said, ' My steed neighs in the court : 

My bark rocks on the brine ; 
And the warrior's vow I am tu-,der now 

To free the pilgrim's shrine : 
But fetch the ring and fetch the priest 

And call that daughter of thine ; 
And rule she wide from my castle on 
Nyde 

While I am in Palestine.' 

'In the dark chamberc, if the bride was 
fair, 
Ye wis, I could not sec ; 
But the steed thrice ne.ghed, and the 
priest fa-t prnyed 
And wedded fast were we. 
Her mother smiled upon her bed 
.^s at its side we knelt to wed ; 
And the l)ride rose from her knee 
And kissed the smile of her mother 
dead. 
Or ever she kissed me. 

' My page, my page, what grieves ihec 
so. 

That the tears run down thy face ? '—^ 
' Alas, alas ! mine own .sister 

Was in thy l.idy's case I 
But s/ie laid down the silks she wore 
And followed him she wed before, 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 



2og 



Disguised as his true servitor, 
lo the very battle-place.' 

And wept the page, but laughed the 
knight, 

A careless laugh laughed he : 
'Well done it were for thy sister. 

But not for my ladye ! 
My love, so please you shall requite 
No woman, whether dark or bright, 

Unwomaned if she be.' 

The page stopped weeping, and smiled 
cold— 

' Your wisdom may declare 
That womanhood is proved the best 
By golden brooch and glossy vest 

The mincing ladies wear : 
Vet is it proved, and was of old, 
Anear as well — I dare to hold — 

By truth, or by despair.' 

He smiled no more — he wept no more — 

But passionately he spake, — 
' Oh, womanly she prayed in tent. 

When none beside did wake! 
Oh, womanly she paled in fight. 

For one beloved's sake ! — 
And her little hand defiled with blood. 
Her tender tears of womanhood 

Most woman -pure did make ! ' 

'Well done it were for thy sister 

Thou tellest well her tale ! 
But for my lady, she shall pray 

r the kirk of Nydesdalc — 
Not dread for me l:)Ut love for me 

Shall make my lady pale : 
No casque shall hide her woman's tear — 
It shall have room to trickle clear 

Behind her woman's veil.' 

' But what if she mistook thy mind 
And followed thee to strife ; 

Then kneeling, did entreat thy love. 
As Paynims ask for life ? ' 

' I would forgive, and evermore 

Would love her as my .servitor, 
But little as my wife. 

'Look up — there is a small bright cloud 
Alone amid the skies ! 



So high, so pure, and so apart. 

A woman's honor lies.' 
The page looked up — the cloud was 

sheen — 
A sadder cloud did rush, I ween, 

Betwi.xt it and his eyes : 



Then dimly dropped his eyes away 

From welken unto hill — 
Ha! who ndes there? — the page is 
'ware. 
Though the cry at his heart is still ! 
And the page seeth all and the kn ght 

seeth none 
Though banner and .spear do fleck the 
sun. 
And the Saracens ride at will. 



He speaketh calm, he speaketh low, — 
' Ride fast, my master, ride. 

Or ere within the broadenuig dark 
The narrow shadows hide ! ' 

' Yea, fa.st, my page ; 1 will do so ; 
And keep thou at my side." 



' Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way. 
Thy faithful page precede 1 

For 1 must loose on saddle-bow 

My battle-casque that galls, 1 trow. 
The shoulder of my steed ; 

And I must pray, as 1 did vow. 
For one in bitter need. 



Ere night I shall be near to thee, — 
Now ride, my master, ride ! 
Ere night, as parted spirits cleave 
To mortals too beloved to leave, 

I shall be at thy side.' 
The knight smiled free at the fantasy. 
And adown the dell did ride. 



Had the knight looked up to the page's 
face. 
No smile the word had won ! 
Had the knight looked up in the page's 
face, 
I ween he had never gone : 
Had the knight looked back to th« 
page's geste, 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE FACE. 



I ween he had turned anon : 
Tor dread was the wo in the face so 

young ; 
And wild was the silent geste that flung 
Casque, sword to earth — as the boy 
down -sprung. 
And stood — alone, alone. 

He clenched his hands as if to hold 

His soul's great agony — 
' Have I renounced my womanhood. 

For wifehood unto thee ? 
And is this the last, last look of thine 

That ever I shall see ? 

Yet God thee save, and mayst thou have 

A lady to thy mind ; 
More wom.in-proud and half as true 

As one thou leav'st behind ! 
And God me take with Him to dwell — 
For Him I cannot love too well, 

As 1 have loved my kind.' 

She looketh up, in earth's despair. 
The hopeful Heavens to seek : 

That little cloud still floateth there. 
Whereof her Loved did speak. 

How brig!.t the little cloud appears! 

Her eyelids fall upon the tears. 
And the tears down either cheek. 



The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel — 
The Paynims round her coming ! 

The sound and sight have made her 
calm, — 
False page, but truthful woman ! 

She "-tands amid them all unmoved ; 

The heart once broken Vjy the loved 
Is strong to meet the foeman. 

' Ho, Christian page ! art keeping sheep. 
From pouring wine cups resting ? ' — 

' I keep my master's noble name. 
For warring, not for feasting : 

And if that here Sir Hubert were, 

Mv master brave, my master dear, 
Ye would not stay to question.' 



' Where is thy master, scornful page. 
That we may slay or bind him ? ' — 

'Now search the lea and search the 
wood. 
And see if ye ran find him ! 

Nathless, as hath been often tried. 

Your Paynim heroes faster ride 
Before him than behind him.' 

' Give smoother answers, lying page. 

Or perish in the lying,' — 
' I trow that if the warrior brand 
Beside my foot, were in my hand, 

'Twere better at replying.' 
They cursed her deep, they smote her 

low. 
They cleft her golden ringlets through : 

The Loving is the Dying. 

She felt the scimitar gleam down. 

And met it from beneath 
With smile more bright in victory 

Thau any sword from shealh, — 
Which flashed across her lip serene. 
Most like the spirit-light between 

The darks of life and death. 



Ingcmisco, ingcmisco ! 
From the convent on the sea. 
Now it sweepeth solemnly ! 
As over wood and over lea 
Bodily the wind did carry 
The great altar of St. Ma'y, 
And the fifty tapers paling o'er it. 
And the Lady Abbess stark before it. 
And the weary nuns with hearts that 
faintly 

Beat along their voices saintly — 

Ingemisco, ingcjnisco ! 
Dirge for abbess laid in shroud, 
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless Dead, 
Page or lady, as we said. 
With the dews upon her head. 
All as sad if not as loud : 

higenn'sco, ingrvtisco! ■ 
Is ever a lament begun 
Bv any mourner under sun, 
Which, ere it endeth, suits but one f 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY, 



PART FIRST. 

' Onora, Onora'— her mothei" is calU 

ing— 
She sits at the lattice and heart the dew 

falling 
Drop after drop from the sycamores 

laden 
With dew as with blossom, and calls 

home the maiden — ■ 
'Night Cometh, Onora.' 

She looks down the garden^walk cav- 

erned with trees, 
To the limes at the end where the green 

arbor is — 
' Some sweet thought or other ma>- keep 

where it found her, 
While forgot or unseen in the dreamlight 

around her— 
Night Cometh, Onora 1' 

She looks up the forest whose alleys 

shoot on 
Like the mute minster-aisles when the 

anthem is done, 
And the choristers sitting with faces 

aslant 
Feel the silence to consecrate m-ore than 

the chant — 
' Onora, Onora 1' 

And forward she looketh across the 
brown heath — 

'Onora, art coming?' — what is it she 
seeth ? 

Nought, nought, but the gray border- 
stone that is wist 

To dilate and assume a wild shape in 
the mist — 
' My daughter !'— Then over 

The casement she leaneth, and as she 
doth so, 

She is 'ware of her little son playing be- 
low : 

'Now where is Onora?' — He hung 
down his head 



And spake not, then answering blushed 
scarlet red,— 
'At the tryst with her lover.' 

But his mother was wroth. In a stern- 
ness quoth she, 

' As thou play'st at the ball, art thou 
playing with me ? 

When we know that her lover to battle 
is gone, 

And the saints know above that she 
loveth but one 
And will ne'er wed another?' 

Then the boy wept aloud. 'Twasa fair 

sight yet sad 
To sea the tears run down the sweet 

blooms- he had : 
He stamped with his foot, said — 'The 

saints know I lied 
Because truth that is wicked is fittest to 

hide! 
Must I utter it, mother?' 

In his vehement childhood he hnrried 

within. 
And knelt at her feet as in prayer 

against sin ; 
But a child at a prayer never sobbeth as 

he— 
' Oh ! she sits with the nun of the brown 

rosarie. 
At nights in the ruin I 

' The old convent ruin the ivy rots off. 
Where the owl hoots by day, and the 

toad is sun-proof; 
Where no singing-birds build ; and the 

trees gaunt and gray 
As in stormy sea-coasts appear blasted 

one way — 
But is this the wind's doing ? 

' A nun in the east wall was buried alive. 
Who mocked at the priest when he called 

her to shrive, — 
And shrieked such a curse as the stone 

took her breath. 



THE LAV OF THE DROWN ROSARY. 



The old abbci^ fell backward and 
swooned unto death 
With an ave Italf-spoken. 

'I tried once to pass it, myself and my 
hound, 

Till, as fearing the lash, down he shiv- 
ered to ground I 

A brave hound, my mother I a brave 
hound, ye wot I 

And the wolf thought the same with his 
fangs at her throat 
In the pass of the Brocken. 

' At dawn and at eve, mother, who 

sitteth there, 
With the brown rosarie never used for 

a prayer '( , 

Stoop low, mother, low I If we went 

there to see. 
What an ugly great hole in that west 

wall must be 
At dawn and at even I 

' Who meet there, my mother, at dawn 

and at even ? 
Who meet by that wall, never looking 

to heaven ? 

sweetest my sister, what doeth with 

thee. 
The ghost of a nun with a brown rosarie. 
And a face turned from heaven ? 

'St. Agnes o'erwatcheth my dreams; 
and erewhde 

1 have felt through mine eyelids the 

warmth of her smile — 
But last night, as a sadness like pity 

came o'er her. 
She whispered—' Say two prayers at 

dawn for Onora ! 
The Tempted is sinning.' 

Onora, Onora ! they heard hernotcom- 

mg — 
Not a step on the grass, not a voice 

through the gloaming : 
But her mothsr looked up, and she stood 

on the floor 
Fair and still as the moonlight that came 

there before. 
And a smile just beginning : 



It touches her lips — but it dares not arise 

To the height of the mystical sphere of 
her eyes : 

And the large musing eyes, neither joy- 
ous nor sorry 

Sing on like the angels in separate glory. 
Between clouds of amber. 

For the hair droops in clouds amber- 
colored, till stirred 

Into gold by the gesture that comes with 
a word : 

While — O soft! — her speaking is so inter- 
wound 

Of the dim and the sweet, 'tis a twilight 
of soiind 
And floats through the chamber. 

' Since thou shrivest my brother, fair 

mother,' said .she, 
' I count on thy priesthood for marrying 

of me : 
And I know by the hills that the battle 

is done — 
That my lover rides on — will be here 

with the sun, 
'Neath the eyes that behold thee !' 

Her mother sat silent — too tender, I wis. 

Of the smile her dead father smiled dy- 
ing to kiss ; 

But the boy started up pale with tears, 
passion- wrought, — 

'O wicked fair sister, the hills utter 
nought ! 
If he comcth, who told thee?' 

' I know by the hills,' she resumed calm 

and clear, 
' By the beauty upon them, that he is 

an ear : 
Did they ever look so .since he bade me 

adieu ? 
Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, 

is true 
As St. Agnes in sleeping.' 

Half-.ashamed and half-softened the boy 

did not speak. 
And the blush met the lashes which fell 

on his cheek : 
She bowed down to kiss him— Dear 

saints, did he see 



THE LAY OF THE DROIFX KOSAKY. 213 


Or feel on her bosom the brown kosa- 


Second Angel. 


RIE — 


No more ! 


That lie shrank away weeping? 


The I'LACE IS filled. 




[Angels vanish. 




Evil Spirit in a Nun's garb by the bed. 


PART SECOND. 


Forbear that dream — forbear that 


A bed — Onora sleeping. Angels, but 
not near. 


dream! too near to Heaven it leaned. 
Onora in sleep. 




Nay, leave me this— but only this ! 'tis 


First Angel. 


but a dream, sweet fiend I 


Must we stand so far, and she 


Evil Spirit. 


So very fair ? 


It is a thought. 


Second Angel. 


Onora in sleep. 


As bodies be. 


A sleeping thought — most innocent 


First Angel. 


of good — 


And she so mild ? 


It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend 1 


Second Angel. 


it cannot, if it would. 


As spirits when 


I say in it no holy hymn,— I do no holy 


They meeken, not to God, but men. 


work ; 


First Angel. 


I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that 


And she so young!— that I who bring 


chimcth from the kirk. 


Good dreami for saintly children, might 


Evil Spirit. 


Mistake that small soft face to-night, 


Forbear that dream — forbear that 


And fetch her such a bles=ied thing. 


dream ! 


That at her waking she would weep 


Onora in sleep. 


For childhood lost anew in sleep : 


Nay, let me dream at least ; 


How hath she sinned ? 


That far-off bell^it may be took for viol 


Second At! gel. 


at a feast — 


In bartering love — 


I only walk among the fields, beneath 


God's love — for man's : 


the autumn -sun, 


First Angel. 


With my dead father, hand in hand, as 


We may reprove 


I have often done. 


The world for this ! not only her : 


Evil Spirit. 


Lst me approach to breathe away 


Forbear that dream ^- forbear that 


This dust 0' the heart with holy air. 


dream ! 


Second ^higel. 


Onota in sleep. 


Stand off ! She sleeps, and did not pray. 


Nay, sweet fiend, let me go — 


First Angel. 


I never more can walk with him, O 


Did none pray for her? 


nevermore but so : 


Second Angel. 


Oh, deep and straight ; oh, very straight ! 


Ay, a child, — 


they move at nights alone : 


Who never, praying, wept before ; 


And then he calleth through my dreams, 


While, in a mother undefiled 


he calleth tenderly, 


Prayer goeth on in sleep, as true 


' Come forth, my daughter, my beloved. 


And pauseless as the pulses do. 


and walk the fields with me !' 


First Angel. 


Evil Spirit. 


Then 1 approach. 


Forbear that dream, or else disprove iis 


Second Angel. 


pureness by a sign. 


It is not WILLED. 


Onora in sleep. 


First Angel. 


Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied I my 


One word : Is she redeemed ? 


word shall answer thine. 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



I hear a bird which used to sing when I 

a child was praying ; 
1 see the poppies in the corn I used to 

sport away ui. 
What shall I do — tread down the dew, 

and pull the blossoms blowing ? 
Or clap my wicked hands to fright the 

finches from the rowen ? 
Evil Spirit. 
Thou shalt do something harder still : 

stand up where thou dost stand 
Among the fields of Dreamland with 

thy father hand in hand, 
And clear and slow, repeat the vow — 

declare its cause and kind, 
Which, not to break, in sleep or wake, 

thou bearest on thy mind. 
Onora in sleep. 
I bear a vow ot sinful kind, a vow for 

mournful cause; 
I vowed it deep, 1 vowed it strong — the 

spirits laughed applause : 
The spirits trailed along the pines low 

laughter like a breeze. 
While, high atween their swinging tops 

the stars appeared to freeze. 
Evil Spirit. 
More calm and free, — speak out to me, 

why such a vow was made. 
Onora in sleep. 
Because that God decreed my death, 

and I shrank back afraid : 
Have patience, O dead father mine ! I 

did not fear to die ; 
1 wish I were a young dead child, and 

had thy company ! 
I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried 

three-year child. 
And wearing only a kiss of thine upon 

my lips that smiled ! 
The Imden tree that covers thee might 

so have sheltered twain — 
For death itself I did not fear — 'tis love 

that makes the pain. 
Love feareth death. I was no child — I 

was betrothed that day ; 
I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could 

not give away. 
How could I bear to lie content and still 

beneath a stone. 
And feel mine own Betrothed go by-^ 

alas ■ no more mine own. — 
Go leading by in wedding pomp some 

lovely lady brave. 



With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, 

while mine were white in grave ? 
How could I bear to sit in Heaven, on 

e'er so high a throne. 
And hear him .say to her — to her ! that 

else he lovcth none ? 
Though e'er so high I .sate above, though 

e'er so low he spake. 
As clear as thvuider I should hear the 

new oath he might take — 
That hers, forsooth, are heavenly eyes, 

— ah, me ! while very dim 
Some heavenly eyes (indeed of Heaven 1) 

would darken down to Ititn. 
Evil Spirit. 
Who told thee thou wast called to death ? 
Onora in sleep. 

1 sat all night beside thee — 
The gray owl on the ruined wall i^hi.t 

both his eyes to hide thee ; 
And ever he flapped his heavy wing all 

brokenly and weak. 
And the long grass waved against the 

sky. aroimd his ga.sping teak. 
I sate beside thee all the night, while the 

moonlight lay forlorn. 
Strewn round us like a dead world's 

shroud, in ghastly fragments torn.. 
And through the night, and thro\:gh the 

hush, and over the flapping wing. 
We heard beside the Heavenly Gate 

the angels murmuring : — 
We heard them say, 'Put day to day, 

and count the days to seven, 
'And God will draw Onora up the gold- 
en stairs of Heaven : 
'And yet the evil ones have leave that 

purpose to defer, 
' For if she has no need of Him, He has 

no n eed of her^ — 
Evil Spirit. 
Speak out to me — speak bold and free. 
Onora in sleep 

And then I heard thee s.-iy. — 
' I count upon my rosarie brown the 

hours thou hast to stay ! 
' Yet God permits us evil ones to put by 

that decree, 
'Since if thou hast no need rf Him, he 

has no need of thee — 
'.A.nd if thou wilt forego the sight cf an- 
gels, verily 
' Thy true love gazing on thy face, sha.l 

guess what angels be — 



THE LAV OF THE BKOiVN ROSARY. 



Nor bride shall pass save thee' . . . 

Alas ! my father's hand's acold — 
The meadows seem. . . . 

Eiiil Spirit. 
ForDe.ir the dream, or let the vow be 

told! 
0/tar<i in sleep. 
I vowed upoii thy rosarie brown, this 

string ol' antique beads, 
By char.iel lichens overgrown, and dank 

among the weeds^ 
This rosirje brown which is thine own, — 

lostTso.il of buried nun. 
Who, loit by vow, wouldst render now 

all so.il; alike imdone ; — 
I vowei upo.i thy ros.irie brown, — and, 

till s.uh vo'.v should break, 
A pledge always of living days, 'twas 

ha.ig around my neck — 
I vowed to thee o.i rosarie, (Dead father, 

look not so 1) 
lwo:ild not tkiink Cod in my lueal, nor 

seek God in 7?ty zvo. 
Evil Spirit. 
And can-it thou prove .... 
Onora in sleep. 

love — my love ! 1 felt him near again ! 

1 saw his steed on mountam-head, I 

heard it on thj plain ! 
Was this no weul for me to feel ? — is 

greater weal than this ? 
Yet whe 1 hj came, I wept his name — 

and the angels heard but his. 
Evil Spirit. 
Well done, well done 1 

Onora in sleep. 
Ay me ! the sun . . . the dreamllght 

'gini to pine, — 
Ay me ! how dread can look the Dead ! 

— Aromt thee, father mine 1 

She starteth from slumber, she sitteth 

upright. 
And her breath comes in sobs while she 

stares through the night : 
There is nought. The great willow, 

her lattice before. 
Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on 

the floor ; 
But her hand-, tremble fast as their 

puUe;, Luid free 
From the death-clasp, close over — the 

UROA'N ROSARIE, 



THIRD PART. 

'Tis a morn for a bridal ; the merrv 

bride-bell 
Rings clear through the green-wood that 

skirLs the chapelie ; 
And the priest at the altar awaiteth the 

bride. 
And the sacristansslyly are jesting aside 
At the work shall be doing. 

While down through the wood rides 

that fiir company. 
The youths with the courtship, the maids 

with the glee. 
Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and 

at once 
All the maids sigh demurely, and think 

for the nonce, 
' And so endeth a wooing 1 ' 

And the bride and the bridegroom are 
leading the way. 

With his hand on her rein, and a word 
yet to say : 

Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft an- 
swers beneath. 

And the little quick smiles come and go 
with her breath. 
When she sigheth or speaketh. 

And the tender bride-mother breaks olT 

unaware 
From .an Ave, to think that her daughter 

is fair. 
Till in nearing the chapel, and glancing 

before. 
She seeth her little son stand at the door. 
Is it play that he seeketh? 

Is it play ? when his eyes wander inno- 
cent- wild. 

And sublimed with a sadness unfittin* a 
child ! 

He trembles not, weeps not — the passion 
is done, 

And calmly he kneels in their midst, 
with the sun 
On his head like a glory. 

' O fair-featured maids, ye are many 1' 
he cried, — 



THE LAV OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



' But, ill fairness and vileness, who 

matcheth the bride ? 
O br.ive-liearteJ youths, ye are many, 

bar wham, 
For the courage and woe, can ye match 

with the groom, 

Ai ye sej them before ye?' 

Out spa'<e the bride's mother— ' The 

vileueis is thine, 
If thou shame thine own sister, a bride 

at thi s'.irine I ' 
Out spike the bride's lover—' The vile- 

nes? be mine, 
If he sh.ime mmc own wife at the hearth 

or thi shrine, 

AnJ the charge be unproved. 

■ Bring the charge, prove the charge, 

brother ! speak it aloud — 
Let thy fithcr and hers, hear it deep in 

his shrOLiJ ! ' 
— ' O father, thou seest — for dead eyes 

can see — 
How she wears on her bosom a brown 

rosayu', 

O my father beloved I ' 

The;i outlaughed the bridegroom, and 

out.laa ;heJ withal 
Both iniideiis .and yruths, by the old 

ch.ipel will — 
'So she weareth no love-gift, kind 

brother,' quoth he, 
' She m ly wear an she listeth, a brown 

rosarie. 

Like a pure -hearted lady 1' 

Then swept through the chapel the long 

brid vi train : 
Though he spake to the bride she re- 

plieJ not again: 
On, as one in a dream, pale and stately 
• sh:: went 
Where the .altar-lights burn o'er the 

greit sacrament, 

Faint with daylight, but steady. 

But her brother had passed in between 
them and her. 

And calmly knelt down on the high- 
alt ir stair — 

Of an infantine aspect so stern to the 
view. 



That the priest could not smile, on the 
child's eyes of blue 

As he would for another. 

Ha knelt like a child marble-sculptured 

and white, 
That seems kneeling to pray on the 

tomb of a knight. 
With a look taken up to each iris of 

stone 
From the greatness and death where he 

knecletli, but none 

From the face of a mother. 

' In your chapel, O priest, ye have wed- 
ded and shriven 

Fair wives for the hearth, and f.iir sin- 
ners for Heaven I 

But this fairest my sister, ye think now 
to wed. 

Bid her kneel where she standeth, and 
shrive her instead — 

O shrive her and wed not 1' 

In tears, the bride's mother, — ' Sir priest, 
unto thee 

Would he he, as he lied to this fair com- 
pany !' 

In wrath, the bride's lover, — The lie 
shall be clear ! 

Speak it out, boy ! the saints in their 
niches shall hear— 

Be the charge proved or said not I' 

Then serene in his childhood he lifted 

his face, 
And his voice sounded holy and fit for 

the place' — 
' Look down from your niches, ye still 

saints, and see 
How she wears on her bosom a brozva 

rostirie ! 

Is it used for the praying ?' 

The youths looked aside — to laugh there 
were a sin — 

And the maidens' lips trembled with 
smiles sliut within: 

Quoth the priest — ' Thou art wild, pret- 
ty boy I Blessed she 

Who prefers at her bridal a brown ro»a- 
ric 
To a worldly arraying 1' 



THE LAV OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



n; 



The bridegroom spake low and led on- 
ward ttie bride, 

And betore tlie high altar they stood 
side by side: 

The nte-book is opened, the rite is be- 
gun— 

They have knelt down together to rise 
up as one— 
Who laughed by the altar? 

The maidens looked forward, the youths 
looked around. 

The bridegroom's eye flashed from his 
prayer at the sound ; 

And each saw the bride, as if no bride 
she were, 

Gazing cold at the priest without ges- 
ture of prayer, 
As he read from the psalter. 

The priest never knew that she did so, 

but still 
He felt a power on him too strong for 

his will ; 
And whenever the Great Name was 

there to be read. 
His voice sank to silence — THAT could 

not be said. 
Or the air could not hold it. 

' I have sinned,' quoth he, ' I have sin- 
ned, I wot ' — 

And the tears ran adown his old cheel<s 
at the thought ; 

They dropped fast on the book ; but he 
read on the same. 

And aye was the silence where should 
be the Name, 
As the choristers told it. 

The rite-book is closed, and the rite 

being done. 
They wh j knelt down together, arise 

up as one : 
Fair riseth the bride — Oh, a fair bride 

is she, — 
But, for all (think the maidens) that 

brown rosarie. 
No saint at her praying 1 

What aileth the bridegroom ? He glares 

blank and wide — 
Then suddenly turning, he kisscth the 

bride — 



His lip stung her with cold ; she glanced 

upwardly mute ; 
' Mine own wite,' he said, and fell stark 

at her foot 
In the word he was .saying. 

They have lifted him up, — but his head 
sinks away. 

And his face showeth bleak in the sun- 
shine and gray. 

Leave him now where he lielh — for oh, 
nevermore 

Will he kneel at an altar or stand on a 
floor 1 
Let his bride gaze upon him I 

Long and still was her gaze, while they 

chafed him there, 
.4nd breathed in the mouth whose last 

life nad kissed her : 
But when they stood up — only ihcyl 

with a start 
The shriek from her soul struck her 

pale lips apart— 
She has lived, and foregone him ! 

And low on his body she droppeth 

adown — 
' Didst call me thine own wife, beloved 

— thine own '? 
Then take thine own with thee I thy 

coldness is warm 
To the world's cold without thee ! Come, 

keep me from harm 
In a calm of thy teaching ! ' 

She looked in his face earnest long, as 

in sootli 
There were hope of an answer, — and 

then kissed his mouth ; 
And with head on his bosom, wept, wept 

bitterly, — 
' Now, O Cod, take pity — take pity en 

me I — 
God, hear my beseeching ! ' 

She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed 
where she lay ; 

She was 'ware of a presence that with- 
er'd the daj — 

Wild she sprang to her feet, — ' 1 surren- 
der to thee 

The broken vow's pledge, — the accursed 
rosarie, — 
I am ready for dying I ' 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



She djshed it in scorn to the marble- 
paved ground, 

Where it fell mute as snow ; and a 
weird music-sound 

Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long 
and dim, — 

As the fiends tried to mock at the chor- 
ister's hymn 
And moaned in the trying. 



FOURTH PART. 

Onora looketh listlessly adown ihe gar- 
den walk : 

' I am weary, O my mother, of thy ten- 
der talk I 

I am weary of the trees a-waving to and 
fro — 

Of the steadfast skies above, the running 
brooks below ; 

All things are the same but I ; — only I 
am dreary ; 

And, mother, of my dreariness behold 
me very weary. 

' Mother, brother, pull the flowers I 
planted \\\ the spring, 

And smiled to think I should smile more 
upon their gathering. 

The bee.; will hnd out other flowers^- 
oh, pull them dearest mine. 

And carry them and carry me before St. 
Agnes' shrine.' 

— Whereat they pulled the summer flow- 
ers she planted i.i the spring. 

And her and them all mournfully to 
Agnes' shrine did bring. 

She looked up to the pictured saint and 

gently shook her head — 
'The picture is too calm for me — too 

calm for vte' she .said : 
'The little flower.i we brought with us, 

before it we may lay, 
For those are used to look at heaven, — 

but /must turn away — 
Because no sinner under sun can dare or 

bear to gaze 
On God's or angel'^ holiness, except in 

Jesu's face.' 



She spoke with passion after pause~ 
' And were it wisely done. 

If we who cannot gaze tibove, .should 
walk the earth alone V 

If we whose virtue is so weak, should 
have a will so strong. 

And stand blind on the rocks, to choose 
the right path from the wrong? 

To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, in- 
stead of love and Heaven, — 

A single rose, for a rose-tree, which 
beareth seven times seven ? 

A rose that droppeth from the hand, that 
fadeth in the breast. 

Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn 
what is the best 1' 

Then breaking into tears, — 'Dear God,' 

she cried, ' and must We see 
All blissful things depart from us, or ere 

we go to Thee ? 
We cannot guess thee in the wood, or 

hear thee in the wir.d ? 
Our cedars must fall round us, ere we 

see the light behind ? 
Ay, sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to 

need thee on that road ; 
But wo being come, the soul is dumb 

that crieth not on ' God.' ' 



Her mother could not spc: k for tears ; 

she ever mused tliiis — 
' The bees ivill fntd ctit other Jlcivers, — 

but what is left for us ? 
But her young brother stayed his sobs 

and knelt beside her knee. 
Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast 

never a word for me ? ' 
She passed her hand rcross his face, she 

pressed it on his cheek. 
So tenderly, so tenderly — she needed 

not to speak. 

The wreath which lay on shrine that 

day, at vespers bloomed no more — 
The woman fair who placed it ihtre, 

had died an hour before. 
Both perished mute, for lack of root, 

earth's nourishment to reach : 
O reader breathe (the ballad saithj tome 

sweetnes,s out of each ! 



A VISION OF POETS. 



Sacreri Esaeiice, lis'iting me this hour, 
How may 1 liglitly stile thy great power ? 

Echo. I'ower. 

Power ! but of whence ? under tlie greeiiwooU spraye? 

Orliv'st iu lleaven V saye. 
Eclio. In Heavens aye. 

In Heavens aye ! tell, may I It obtayne 

By alms, by lustiug, prayer, — by paiue ? 
Echo. Ky paine. 

Show me the paine, it shall be undergone : 

1 to my end will still go uu. 

Eclto. Go on. 

Bkitanma's Pastorai.9 



A POET CJuld not sleep aright. 
For his soul kept up too much light 
Under his eyelids for the night : 

And thus he rose disquieted 

With sweet rhymes ringing through his 

head. 
And m the forest wandered ; 

Where, sloping up the darkest glades. 
The moon had drawn long colonnades. 
Upon whose floor the verdure fades 

To a faint silver : p.avement fair. 

The antique wood-nymphs scarce would 

dare 
To footprint o'er, had such been there. 

And rather sit by breathlessly. 
With tears in their large eyes to see 
Ths consecrated sight. But he 

The poet — wh.T with spirit-kiss 
Familiar, had long claimed for his 
Whatever earthly beauty is. 

Who also in his spirit bore 

A Beauty passing the earth's store. 

Walked calmly onward evermore. 

His aimless thoughts in metre went. 
Like a babe's hand without intent 
Drawn down a seven-stringed instru- 
ment. 

Nor jarred it with his humor as. 
With a faint stirring of the grass. 
An apparition fair did pass. 



He might have feared another time. 
But all things fair and strange did chime 
With his thoughts then — as rhyme to 
rhyme. 

An angel had not startled him, 
Al.ghted from Heaven's burning rim 
'I'o breathe from glory in the Dim — 

IVIuch less a lady riding slow 

Upon a palfrey white as snow. 

And smooth as a snow-cloud could go. 

Full upon his she turned her face — 
' What, ho, sir poet ! dost thou pace 
Our woods at night, in ghostly chase 

' Of some fair Dryad of old tales. 
Who chants between the nightingales, 

And over sleep by song prevails 'i' 

She smiled ; but he could see arise 
Her soul from far adown her eyes. 
Prepared as if for sacrifice. 

She looked a queen who seemeth gay 
From royal grace alone: 'Now, nay,' 
He answered, — ' slumber passed away. 

Compelled by instincts in my head 
That I should see to-night instead 
Of a fair nymph, some fairer Dread.' 

She looked up quickly to the sky 
."Vnd spake: — ' 't'he moon's regality 
Will hear no praise ! she is as I. 



A VlSIOy OF POETS. 



' She is in heaven, and I on earth; 
This is my kingdom — I come forth 
To crown all poeLs to their worth.' 

He brake in with a voice that mourned — 
' To their worth, lady! They are scorned 
By men they sing for, till inin-ned. 

'To their worth ! Beauty in the mind 
Leaves the hearth cold ; and love re- 
fined 
Ambitions make the world imkind. 

' The boor who plough:; the daisy down. 
The chief whose mortgage of renown 
Fixed apo:i graves, hai bought a crown — 

' Both these arc happier, more approved 
Thtr, poets! — Why should 1 be moved 
I.i saying botli are more beloved ? 

' The so ith can judge not of the north ;' 
She resumed calmly — ' 1 come forth 
To crown all poets to their worth. 

' Yea, verily, and to anoint them all 
With blessed oils which surely .shall 
Smell sweeter as the ages fall.' 

'As swecti' the poet said, and rung 

A low sad laugh, ' Ui (lowers are. sprung 

Outof their graves whea they die young. 

'As sweet as window eglantine — 

So ne bou-jh of which, a> they declme. 

The hired nurse gathers at their sign. 

'As sweet, in short, as perfumed shroud 
Which the .gAy Romai maidens sewed 
For E.iglish Keats, singing aloud.' 

The lady answered, ' Yea, as sweet ! 
The things thou namest being complete 
In fragrance as I measure it. 

' Since sweet the death-clothes and the 

knell 
Of him who havinj; lived, dies well, — 
And holy sweet the asphodel 

' ?rfirred softly by that foot of his. 
When he treads brave on all that is, 
Into the world of souls, from this 1 



' Since sweet the tears, dropped at the 

door 
Of tearless Death, — and even before : 
Sweet, con.secrated evermore ! 

' What ! dost thou judge it a strange 

thing. 
That poets, crowned for vanquishing. 
Should bear some dust from out the rmg? 

' Come en with me, come on with me ; 
And learn in. coming ! Let me free 
Thy spirit into verity ' 

She ceased : her palfrey's paces sent 
No separate noises as she went, 
'i'was a bee's hum — a little spent. 

And while the poet seemed to tread 
Along the drowsy noise .so made. 
The forest heaved up overhead 

Its billowy foliage through the air. 
And the calm stars did, far and spare 
O'er-swim the masses everywhere : 

Save when the overtopping pines 
Did bar their tremulous light with lines 
All fi.Ked and black. Now the moon 
shines 

A broader glory Yoi may see 

'I'he trees grow rarer presently. 

The air blows up more fre-sh and free : 



Until they come from dark to light. 
And from the forest to the sight 
Of the large Heaven-heart, bare with 
night, — 

A fiery throb in every star. 
Those burning aiteries that are 
The conduits of God's life afar. 

A wild brown moorland iniderneath. 
And four pools hre.aking up the heath 
With white low gleamings, blank as 
death. 

Besid; the first pool, near the wood, 
■A dead tree in set horror stood. 
Peeled and disjointed, stark as rood ; 



A VISION OF POETS. 



Since thunder stricken, years ago. 
Fixed in the spectral strain and throe 
Wherewith it struggled Irom the blow : 

A monumental tree . . . alone, 

That will not bend in storms, nor groan. 

But break otf sudden like a stone. 

Its lifeless shadow lies oblique 
Upon the pool, — where, javelin-like. 
The star-rays quiver while they strike. 

' Drink,' said the lady, very .'till— 
' Be holy and cold.' He did her will. 
And drank the starry water chill. 

The next pool tliey came near unto, 
Was bare of trees ; there, only grew 
Straight flags and lilies just a few. 

Which sullen on the waters snt 
And leant their faces on the flat. 
As weary of the starlight-state. 

'Drink,' said the lady, grave and slow, 
' IVorWs use behoveth thee to know.' 
He drank the bitter wave below. 

The third pool, girt with thorny bushes, 
And flaunting weeds, and reeds and 

rushes 
That winds sang through in mournful 

gushes. 

Was whitely smeared in many a round 
By a slow slime : the starlight swound 
Over the ghastly light it found. 

' Drink,' said the lady, sad and slow — 
' World's love behoveth ihee to know.' 
He looked to her, commanding so. 

Her brow was troubled, but her eye 
Struck clear to his soul. For all reply 
He drank the water suddenly, — 

Then, with a deathly sickness, passed 
Beside the fourth pool and the last. 
Where weights of shadow were down- 
cast 

From yew and alder, and rank trails 
Of nightshade clasping the trunk-scales. 
And flung across the intervals 



From yew to yew. Who dares to stoop 
Where those Uank branches overdroop 
Into his heart the chill strikes up : 

He hears a silent gliding coil — 

The snakes strain hard ;. gainst the soil— 

His foot slips in their slimy oil : 

And toads seem crawling on his hand. 
And clinging bats, but dimly scanned. 
Right in his face their wings expand. 

A paleness took the poet's cheek ; 

■ .\liist I drink here 'r' he seemed to seek 

The lady's will with utterance meek. 

'Ay. ay,' fhe raid, ' it ro must be' 
(And this time she ."^pake cheerfully) 
' Behoves thee know World's cruelty.' 

He bowed his forehead' till his mouth 
Curved in the wave, and drank unloth. 
As if from rivers of the south. 

His lips .sobbed through the water rank. 
His heart jiaiised in him while l.edr.ink. 
His brain beat lieart-hke— rose and .sank. 

And he swooned backward to a dream. 
Wherein he lay 'twixt glocm and gleam, 
With Death and Life at each extreme. 

And spiritual thunders, born of soul 
Not cloud, did leap from mystic pole 
And o'er him roll and counter-roll. 

Crushing their echoes reboant 

With their own wheels. Did Heaven 

so grant 
His spirit a sign of covenant ? 

At la.st came silence. A slow kiss 
Did crown his forehead after this : 
His eyelids flew back for the bliss. 

The lady stood I eside his head. 
Smiling a thought, with hair dispread. 
The moonshine .seemed dishevelled 

In her sleek tresses manifold ; 
Like Danae's in the rain of old. 
That dripped with melancholy gold. 



.( r/siosv OF roETS 



Hilt SHE was holy, pale, and liigh — 
As one who saw an ecstasy 
Beyond a foretold agony. 

'Rise up !' said she, with voice where 

song 
Eddied through speech — ' rise up ! be 

strong: 
And learn how right avengeth wrong.' 

The poet rose up on his feet: 
He stood before an altar set 
For sacrament, with vessels meet. 

And mystic altarlights which shine 
As if their flames were crystalline 
Carved flames that would not shrink or 
pine. 

The altar filled the central place 

Of a great church", and towards its face 

Long aisles did shoot and interlace. 

And from it a continuous mist 
Of incense (round the edges kissed 
By a yellow light of amethyst) 

Wound upward slowly and throbbingly, 
Cloud within cloud, right silverly. 
Cloud above cloud, victoriously. 

Broke fvill again.st the arched roof, 
And, thence refracting, eddied oflT, 
And floated through the marble woof 

Of many a fine-wrought architrave. 
Then, poising the white masses brave. 
Swept solemnly down aisle and nave. 

And now in dark, and now in light, 
The countless columns, glimmering 

white, 
Seemed leading out to the Infinite. 

I Plunged half-way up the shaft they 
showed. 
In that pale shifting insense-cloud 
Wliich flowed them by, and overflowed. 

Till mist and marble seemed to blend. 
And the whole temple, at the end, 
With its own incense to distend ; 



The arches, like a giant's bow, 
'I'o bend and slacken, — and below 
The niched saints to come and go. 

Alone, amid the shifting scene. 
That central altar .stood serene 
In Its clear steadfast taper-sheen. 

Then first, the poet was aware 
Of a chief angel standing there 
Before that altar, in ihe glare. 

His eyes were dreadful, for you saw 
That they saw God — his lips and jaw. 
Grand-made and strong as Sinai's Law. 

They could cnimciate and refrain 

From vibratory after-pain ; 

And his brows height was sovereign — 

On the vast background of his wings 

Arose his image, and he flings, 

From each plumed arc, pale glitterings 

And fiery flakes (as beateth more 
Or less, the angel-heart) before 
And round him, upon roof and floor. 

Edging with fire the shifting fumes : 
While at his side, 'twixt lights and 

glooms. 
The phantasm of an organ booms. 

E.xtending from which instrument 
And angel, right and left way bent. 
The poet's sigh grew sentient 

Of a strange company around. 

And toward the altar,— pale and bound 

With bay above the eye profound. 

Deathful their faces were ; and yet 
The power of life was in them set — 
Never I'orgot, nor to forget. 

Sublime significance of mouth. 
Dilated nostril full of youth, 
And forehead royal with the truth. 

These faces were not multiplied 
Beyond your count, but side by side 
Did front the altar, glorified : 



A 1 73/ OX OF POETS. 



Still ns a vision, yet exprest 

Full as an action — look and geste 

Of buried saint m risen rest. 

The poet knew them. Faint and dim 
His spirit seemed to sink in him. 
Then, like a dolphin, change and swim 

The current — These were poets true 
Who died lor Beauty, as martyrs do 
For truth— the ends being scarcely two, 

God's prophets of the ISeautiful 
'Ihese poets were — of iron rule. 
The ruggedcill.v, serge of wool. 

Here Homer, with the broad saspense 
Of thunderous brows, and lips intense 
Of garrulous god-innocence. 

'J'hcre, Shakspeare ! on whose forehead 
climb 

The crowns o' the world ! Oh, eyes sub- 
lime — 

With tears and laughters for all time ! 

Here, .^schylus, — the women swooned 

To see so awful when he frowned 

As the gods did, — he standeth crowned. 

Euripides, with close and mild 
Scholastic lips, — that could be wild. 
And l.iugh or sob out like a child 

Even in the classes. Sophocles, 

With that king's look which down the 

trees. 
Followed the dark effigies 

Of the lost Theban. Hesiod old, 
Who somewhat blind and deaf and 

cold. 
Cared most for gods and ftulls. And 

bold 

Electric Pindar, quick as fear, 

With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear 

Slant startled eyes that seem to hear 

. The chariot rounding the last goal, 
'Jo hurtle past it in his soul : 
And Sappho, with that gloriole 



Of ebon hair on calmed brows — 
O poet-woman none foregoes 
The leap attaining the repose ! 

Theocritus, with glittering locks 
Dropt sideway, as betwi.xt the rocks 
He watched the visionary flocks. 

And Aristophanes : who took 
Tne world with mirth, and -laughter- 
struck 
The hollow caves of Thought and woke 

The infinite echoes hid in each. 

And Virgil : shade of Hantaan beech 

Did help the shade of bay to reach 

And knit around his forehead high. 
For his gods wore less ijiajesty 
Than his brown bees hummed death- 
lessly. 

Lucretius — nobler than his mood : 
Who dropped his plummet down the 

broad 
Deep universe, and said ' No God,' 

Finding no bottom : he denied 
Divinely the Divine, and died 
Chief poet on the Tiber side 

Bj' grace of God ! his face is stern. 
As one compelled, in spite of scorn. 
To teach a truth he could not learn. 

And Ossian, dimly seen or guessed : 
Once counted greater than the rest. 
When mountain-winds blew out his vest. 

And Spencer drooped his dreaming head 
(With languid sleep-smile you had said 
From his own verse engendered) 

On Ariosto's, till they ran 

"J heir curls in one : — The Italian 

Shot nimbler heat of bolder man 

From his fine lids. And Dante stern 
And .sweet, whose spirit was an urn 
For wine and milk poured out in turn. 

Hard-souled Alfieri ; and fancy-wiUBd 
Boiardo, — who with laughter filled 
The pauses of the jostled shield, 



A VISION OF POETS. 



And Berni, with a hand stretched out 
To sleok that storm : And not without 
The wreath he died in, and the doubt 

ilc died by, Tasso : bard and lover. 
Whose visions were too thin to cover 
'i'he face of a false woman over. 

And soft Racine, — and grave Corneille, 
The orator of rhymes, whose wail 
Scarce shook his purple. And Petrarch 
pale. 

From whose brainlighted heart were 

thrown 
A thousand thoughts beneath the r.un, 
Each lucid with the name of One. 

And Camoens, with that look he had, 
Compelling India's Geniu> sad 
From the wave through the Lusiad, 

With murmurs of the storm-cape ocean 

Indrawn in vibrative emotion 

Along the verse. And while devotion 

In his wild eyes fantastic shone 
Under the tonsure blown upon 
By airs celestial, — Calderon : 

And bold De Vega, — who breathed 

quick 
Verse after verse, till death's old trick 
Put pause to life and rhetoric. 

And Goethe — with that reaching eye 
His .soul reached out from, far and high. 
And fell from inner entity. 

And Schiller, with heroic front 
Worthy of Plutarch's kiss upon't — 
Too large for wreath cf modern wont. 

And Chaucer, with his infantine 
p'amiliar clasp of things divine- 
That mar'.i upon his lip is wine. 

Here Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim : 
The shapes of svnis and stars did swim 
Like clouds from them and granted him 

God for sole vision ! Cowley, there. 
Whose active fancy debonaire 
Drew straws like amber — foul to fair. 



Drayton and Browne, — with smiles they 

drew 
From outward Nature, still kept new 
From their own inward nature true. 

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben — 
Whese fire-hearts sowed our furrows 

when 
The world was worthy of such men. 

And Burns, with pimgent passionings 
Set in his eyes. Deep lyric springs 
Are of the fire-mount's issuings. 

And Shelley, in his white ideal. 

All .statue blind ; and Keats, the real 

Adonis, with the hymeneal 

Fresh vernal buds half simk between 
His youthful curls, kissed straight and 

.sheen 
In his Rome-grave, by Venus queen. 

And poor, proud Byron, — -,ad as grave 
And salt as life: forlornly brave. 
And quivering with the dart he drave. 

And visionary Coleridge, who 

Did sweep his thoughts as angels do 

Their wings, with cadence up the Blue. 

The poets faced, and many more, 

The lighted altar looming o'er 

The clouds of incense dim and ho.ar : 

And all their faces, in the lull 

Of natural things, looked wonderful 

With life and death and deathless rule : 

All still as stone, a"d yet intense ; 
As if by spirit's vehemence 
That stone were carved, and not by 
sense. * 

But where the heart of each should beat. 
There seemed a wowid instead of it. 
From whence the blood dropped to 
their feet. 

Drop after c'ro-i— dropped heavily 
As century follows century 
Into the deep eternity. 



A VISION OF POETS. 



Then said the lady,— and her word 
Came distant,— as wide waves were 

stirred 
Lietween her and the ear that heard : 

■ WQrhfs use is cold. World's love is 

vain. 
World's cruelty is bitter bane ; 
But pain is not the fruit of pain. 

■ Hearken, O poet, whom I led 

From the dark wood ! Dismissing dread. 
Now hear this angel in my stead : 

His organ's clavier .strikes along 
I'hese poet's hearts, sonorous, strong, 
They gave him without count of wrong— 

' A diapason whence to guide 

Up to God's feet, from those who died. 

An anthem fully glorified : 

' Whereat (>od's blessing .... Ibarak 
Breathes back this music— folds it back 
About the earth in vapoury rack, 

' And men walk in it, crying ' Lo 1 
'J'he world is wider, and we know 

■ The very heavens look brighter so. 

' ' The stars move statelier round the 

edge" 
' Of the silver spheres, and give in 

pledge 
'Their light for nobler privilege. 

' ' No little flower but joys or grieves, 
'Full life is rustling iu tlie sheaves ; 
' Full spirit sweeps the forest-leaves.' 

'So works this music on the earth : 
God so admits it, sends it forth. 
To another worth to worth — 

' A new creation-bloom that rounds 
The old creation, ana e>po inds 
His Beautiful i;i tuneful sounds. 

' Now hearken I' Then the poet gazed 
Upon the angel glorious-faced, 
Whose hand, majestically raised. 

Floated across the organ-keys. 

Like a pale moon o'er murmuring seas. 

With no touch but with influences. 



Then rose and fell (with swell and 

sivound 
Of shapeless noises wandering round 
A concord which at last they found) 

Those mystic keys ^— the tones were 

mixed. 
Dim, faint ; and thrilled and throbbed 

betwixt 
The incomplete and the unfixed : 

And therein mighty minds were heard 
In mighty musings, inly stirred. 
And struggling outward for a word. 

Until these surges, having run 
Thij way and that, gave out as one 
An Aphrodite of tweet tune,~- 

A Harmony that, finding vent, 
Upward in grand ascension went. 
Winged to .a heavenly argument-" 

Up, upw.ard I like a saint who strips 
'I'he shroud back from his eyes and lips, 
And rises in :.po;alypse : 

A H.armony sublime and plain. 
Which cleft (as flying swan, the rain, — 
Throwing the drops off with a strain 

Of her white wing) those undertones 
Of perplext chords, and soared at once 
And struck out from the starry thrones 

Their several silver octaves, as 

It oassed to God : 'I he music was 

Of divine stature — strong to pass ; 

And those who heard it, understood 
Something of life in spirit and binoi'— 
Something of Nature's fair and good, 

And while it sounded, those great sof.'.i 
Did thrill as racers at the goals. 
And burn in all their aureoles. 

But she, the lady, as vapor-bound. 
Stood calmly in the joy of soimd,— 
Like nature with the showers around. 

And when it ceased, the blood which 
fell. 



826 



A r/S/O.V OF POETS. 



Again, alone grew audible, 
Tolling the silencr: as a bell. 

The sovran angel lifted high 

Hi-i hand and spake out sovranly— 

'Tried poets, hearken and reply I 

' Give me true answers. If we grant 
That not to suffer, is to want 
The conscience of the Jubilant,— 

' If ignorance of anguish is 

/>«/ ignorance ; and mortals miss 

Far prospects, by a level bliss,— 

' If as two colors must be viewed 
In a visible image, mortals should 
Need good and evil, to .see good,— 

' If to speak nobly, comprehends 

To feel profoundly — if the ends 

Of power and suflering, Nature blends, — 

' If poets nu the tripod must 
Writhe like the Python, to make just 
Their oracles, and merit trust, — 

' If every vatic word that sweeps 

To change the world, must pale theirllps, 

And leave their own souls in eclipse — 

' If to search deep the universe 

Must pierce the searcher with the 

curse, — 
Because that bolt {in man's reverse,) 

' Was shot to the heart of the wood and 

lies 
Wedged deepest in the 1 e;t : — if eyes 
That look for visions and surprise 

' From influent angels, must shut down 
Their lids first, upon sun and moon. 
The head asleep upon a stone, — 

' If One who did redeem you back, 
I5y His own loss from final wrack. 
Did consecrate by touch and track 

' Those teriiporal sorrows, till the t.aste 
Of brackish waters of the waste 
Is salt with tears He dropttoo fast,— 



'If all the crowns of earth must woimd 
With prickings of the thorns He found, — 
If saddest sighs swell sweetest sound, — 

' What say ye unto this? — refuse 
This baptism in .salt water ? — cVioose 
Calm breasts, mute lips, and labor loose? 

' Or, oh ye gifted givers ! ye 
Who give your liberal hearts to me. 
To make the world tliis harmony. 

Are ye resigned that they be spent 
To such world's help ?" — 

The Spirits bent 
Their awful brows and said—' Content I' 

Content! it sounded like ^J>«(??i, 
Said by a choir of mourning men— ^ 
An affirmation full of pain 

And patience : — ay, of glorying' 
And adoration, -^as a king 
Might seal an oath for governing. 

1 hen saiithe angel^and his face 
Lightened abroad, until the place 
Grew larger for a moment's space, — . 

The long aisles flashing out in light. 
And nave and transept, columns white 
And arches crossed, being clear to sight 

As if tha roof were off, and all 
Stood in the noon -sun, — ' Lo ! I call 
To other hearts as Kberal. 

' This pedal strikes out m the air : 
My instrument has room to bear 
Still fuller strains and perfecter, 

' Herein is room, and shall be room 
While Time lasts, for new hearts to come 

Consummating while they consume. 

' What living man will bring a gift 
Of his own heart, and help to lift 
'I'hc tune ? — The race is to the swift ! ' 

Soasked the angel. Straight thcwhilc, 

A company came up the aisle 

With measured step and sorted smile ; 



A l-'/SfChV OF POETS. 



Cleaving the incense-clouds that rise, 
With winking unaccustomed eyes, 
And love-locks smelling sweet of spice. 

One bore his head above the rest, 
As if the world were dispossessed — 
And one did pillow chin on breast. 

Right languid — an as he should faint ! 
One shook his curls across his paint. 
And moralized on worldly taint. 

One, slanting up his face, did wink 
The salt rheum to the eyelid's brink. 
To think— O gods ! or— not to think ! 

Some trod out stealthily and slow. 
As if th,e sun would fall in snow 
If tkey walked to instead of fro. 

And some with conscious ambling free, 
Did shake their bells right daintily 
On hand and foot for harmony. 

And some composing sudden sighs 
In attitudes of point-device. 
Rehearsed impromptu agonies. 

And when this company drew near 
The spirits crowned, it might appear 
Submitted to a ghastly fear. 

As a sane eye in master-passion 
Constrains a maniac to the fashion 
Of hideous maniac imitation 

In the least geste — the dropping low 
O' the lid — the wrinkling of the brow. 
Exaggerate with mock and mow, — 

So, mastered was that company 
By the crowned vision utterly. 
Swayed to a maniac mockery. 

One dulled his eyeballs, as they ached 
With Homer's forehead — though he 

lacked 
An inch of any. And one racked 

His lower lip with restless tooth, 
A Pindar's rushing words forsooth 
Were pent behind it. One, his smooth 



Pink cheeks, did rumple passionate. 
Like /Eichylus — and iried to prate 
On trolling tongue, of fate and fate : 

One set her eyes like Sappho's — or 
Any light woman's! one forbore 
Like Dante, or any man as poor 

In mirth, to let a smile undo 

His hard shut lips. And one that drew 

Sour humors from his mother, blew 

His sunken cheeks out to the size 
Of most unnatural jollities. 
Because Anacreon looked jest-wise. 

So with the rest. — It was a sight 

A great world-laughter would requite. 

Or great world-wrath, with equal right. 

Out came a speaker from that crowd. 
To speak for all — in sleek and proud 
Exordial periods, while he bowed 

His knee before the angel — ' Thus, 
O angel who hast called for us. 
We bring thee service emulous, — 

' Fit service from sufficient soul — 
Hand-service, to receive world's dole- 
Lip-service, ill world's ear to roll 

' Adjusted concords — soft enow 

I'o hear the wine cups passing, through. 

And not too grave to spoil the show. 

' 1 hou, certes, when thou askest more, 
O sapient angel, leanest o'er 
The window-sill of metaphor. 

' To give our hearts up ! fie ! — That r.age 
Barbaric antedates the age : 
It is not done on any stage. 

' Because your scald or gleeman went 
With seven or nine-stringed instrument 
Upon his back — must ours be bent ? 

' We are not pilgrims, by your leave. 
No, nor yet martyrs ! if we grieve. 
It is to rhyme to . . . summer eve. 

' And if we labor, it shall be 
As suiteth best with our degree. 
In after-dinner reverie.' 



228 



A I'ISION OF POETS. 



More yet that speixkcr would have said. 
Poising between his smiles fair fed, 
E.icu separate phrase till tinislied ; 

Bat all the foreheads of those born 
And dead true poets flushed with scorn 
Betwixt the bay leaves round them 
worn — 

Ay, jetted such brave fire, that they, 
Tne new come, shrank and paled away. 
Like leaden ashes when the day 

Strikes on the hearth ! A spirit-bla!;t, 
A presence known by power, at last 
Took ttiem up mutely — they had passed 

And he, our pilgrim-poet, saw 
Only their places, in deep awe, — 
Wnat time the angel's smile did draw 

His gazing upward. Smiling on. 
The angel in the angel shone. 
Revealing glory in benison. 

Till, ripened in the light which shut 
The poet in, his spirit mute 
Dropped sadden, as a perfect fruit. 

He fell before the angel's feet. 
Saying — ' If what is true is sweet. 
In jomething 1 may compass it. 

' For wliere my worthiness is poor. 
My will standi richly at the door. 
To pay shortcomings evermore. 

' Accept me therefore — Not for price. 
And not for pride my sacrifice 
Is tendered ! for my soul is nice 

And will beat down those dusty seeds 
Of bearded corn, if .she succeeds 
In soaring while the covey feeds. 

' I soar — I am drawn up like the lark 
To iti white cloud : So high my mark. 
Albeit my w.ng is small and d.irk. 

' I ask no wages — seek no fame : 

Sew me, for shroud round face and 

name, 
God's banner of the oriflammc. 



' I only would have leave to loose 
(In tears and blood, if so He choose) 
Mine inward music out to use. 

' I only would be spent — in pain 
And loss, perchance — but not in vain. 
Upon the sweetness of tli.it strain. 

' Only project, beyond the bound 
Of mine own life, so lost and found. 
My voice, and live on in its sound. 

' Only embrace and be embraced 
By fiery ends. — whereby to waste 
And light God's future with my past. 

The angel's smile grew more divine — 
The mort.il speaking — ay, its shine 
Swelled fuller, l.ke a choir-note fine, 

Till the broad glory round his brow 
Did vibrate with the light below ; 
But what he said 1 do not know. 

Nor know I if the man who prayed. 
Rose up accepted, unfor'oadi^'. 
From the church-floor where he was 
laid,— 

Nor if a li-^tening life did run 
Through the king-poets, one by one 
Rejoicing in a worthy son. 

My soul, which might have seen, grew 

blind 
By what it looked on : I can find 
No certain count of things behind. 

I saw alone, dim, white and grand 
As in a dream, the angel's hand 
Stretched forth in gesture of command 

Straight through the haze — And so as 

erst 
A strain more noble than the first 
Mused in the organ and outburst. 

With giant march, from floor to roof 
Rose the full notes ; now parted oiT 
in pauses mas-ively aloof 

Like measured thunders ; now rejoined 
In concords of mysterious kind 
Which fused together sense and mind ; 



A VISION OF POETS. 



Now flashing sharp on sharp along 
Exultant HI a mounting throng, — 
Kow dying off to a low song 

FeJ upon minors, — wavelike sounds 
Ri-edJying into silver rounds, 
Enlarging liberty with bounds. 

And every rhythm that seemed to close, 
S.irvivei ia confluent underflows, 
SyiUpho.iioui w.th the ne.it that rose : 

Thus ih^ whole strain being multiplied 
And greatened, — with its glorified 
Wings sliot abroad fi'om side tj s.de, — 

Waved baclcwarj (as a wind might 

wave 
A Broclcen mist, and with as brave 
Wild roaring) arch and architrave. 

Aisle, trinsept, column, marble wall, — 
Then swelling outward, prodigal 
Of aspiration beyond thrall. 

Soared, — and drew up with it the whole 

Of this said vi.sion — as a soul 

Is raised by a thought : and as a scroll 

Of bright devices is unrolled 

Still upward, with a gradual gold, — 

So rose the vision manifold. 

Angel and organ, and the roimd 
Of spirits solemnized and crowned, — 
While the freed clouds of incense 
wound 

Ascending, following in their track 
And glimmering faintly, like the rack 
O' the moon in her own light cast back. 

And as that solemn Dream withdrew, 
Tnc lady's kiss did fall anew 
Cold on the poet's brow as dew. 

And that same kiss which bound him 

first 
Beyond the senses, now reversed 
Its own law, and most subtly pierced 

His spirit with the sense of things 
Sensual and present. Vmishings 
Of glory, with jEolian wings 



Struck him and passed : the lady's face 
I) d melt back in the chrysopra; 
Uf the orient morning sky tiiat v»'.as 

Vet clear of lark, — and there and so 
S!ie melted, ai a star might do. 
Still smiUng as she melted — slow : 

Smiling so slow, he seemed to sec 
Her smile the last thing, gloriously, 
beyond her — far as memory : 

Then he looked roimd : he was alone — . 
He lay before the breaking stm. 
As Jacob at the Bethel stone. 

And thought's entangled skein being 

wound. 
He knew the moorland of his swound, 
And the pale pools that seared the 

ground, — • 

The far wood-pines, like offing ships — 
The fourth pools yew anear him drip. — 
World's cruelty attaints his lips ; 

And still he tastes it — bitter still — 
'i'hrough all that glorious possible 
He had tlie sight of present ill 1 

Vet rising calmly up and .slowly. 
With such a cheer as scorneth folly. 
And mild delightsome melancholy, 

He journeyed homeward through the 

wood. 
And prayed along the solitude, 
Botwi.\t the pines, — ' O God, my God 1' 

The golden morning's open flowings 
Did sway the trees to murmurous bow- 

In metric chant of bles,scd poems. 

And passing homeward through the 

wood. 
He prayed along the solitude, — 
' Thou, Poet-God, art great and good ! 

' And though we must have, and have 

had 
Right reason to be earthly sad. — 
Thou, Poet-God, art great and glad.' 



A 1-7 S/ ON OF POETS. 



CONCLUSION. 

Life treads on life, and heart on heart — 
We press loo close in church and mart. 
To keep a dream or grave apaM. 

And I was 'ware of walking down 
That same green forest where had gone 
The poet-pilgnm. One by one 

I traced his foststeps : From the east 
A red and tender radiance pressed 
Through the near trees, until I guessed 

The sun behind shone full and round ; 
While up the leafiness profound 
A wind scarce old enough for sound 

Stood ready to blow on me when 

I turned that way ; and now and then 

The birds sang and brake off again 

To ^hake their pretty feathers dry 
Of the dew sliding droppingly 
From the leaf-edges, and apply 

Back to their song. 'Twi.\t dew and 

bird 
So sweet a silence ministered, 
God seemed to use it for a word. 

Yet morning souls did leap and nni 
In all things, .is the least had Won 
A joyous insight of the sun. 

And no one looking round the wood 
Could help confessing as he .stood, 
T/ii's Poet- God is glad and good. 

But hark! a distant sound that grows! 
A heaving, sinknig of the boughs — 
A rustling murmur, not of those ! 

A breezy noise, which is not breeze! 
And white-clad children by degrees 
Steal out in troops among the trees ; 

Fair little children, morning-bright 
^yith faces grave, yet soft to sight. 
Expressive of restrained delight. 



Some plucked the palm-boughs withm 

reach, 
And others leapt up high to catch 
The upper boughs, and shake from each 

A rain of dew, till, wetted so. 

The child who held the branch let go. 

And it swang backward with a flow 

Of faster drippings. Then 1 knew 
The children laughed — but the laugh 

flew 
From its own chirrup, as might do 

A frightened song-bird ; and a child 
Who seemed the chief, .said very mild. 
'Hush! keep this morning luidefiled.' 

His eyes rebuked them from calm 

spheres : 
His soul upon his brow appears 
In waiting for more holy years..' 

I called the child to me, and said, 

' What are your palms for V — ' To be 

spread,' 
He answered, ' on a poet dead. 

'The poet died last month ; and now 
The world, which had been somewhat 

slow 
In honoring his living brow, 

' Commands the palms — They must b^ 

strown 
On his new marble very soon. 
In a procession of the town.' 

I sighed and said, ' Did he foresee 

Any .such honor '?' ' Verily 

I cannot tell you,' answered he, 

' But this I know. — I fain would lay 
Mine own head down, another day. 
As he did, — with the fame away. 

'.\ lily, a friend's hand had plucked. 
Lay by his death-bed, which he looked 
As deep down as a bee had sucked ; 

'Then, turning to the lattice, gazed 
O'er hill and river, and upraised 
His eyes illumined and amaz«d 



A y/S/OJV OF JOETS. 



23' 



' With the world's beauty, i\p to God, 
Re-oflfering on their iris broad, 
The images of things bestowed 

' By the chief Poet, — God !' he cried, 
' Be praised for anguish, which has tried ; 
For beauty, which has satisfied ; — 

'For this world's presence, half within 
And half without me — sound and scene- 
This sense of Being and of Slaving been. 

' I thank thee that my soul hath room 
For Thy grand world ! Both guests may 

come — 
Beauty, to soul — Body, to tomb ! 

' I am content to be so weak. 

Put strength into "the words I speak. 

And I am strong in what I seek. 

'I am content to be so bare 
Before the archers ! everywhere 
My wounds being stroked by heavenly 
air. 

' I laid my soul before Thy feet. 
That Images of fair and sweet 
Should walk to other men on it. 

' I am content to feel the step 

Of each pure Image ! — let those keep 

To mandragore, who care to sleep. 

*I am content to touch the brink 
Of the other goblet, and I think 
My bitter drink a wholesome drink. 

' Because my portion was assigned 
Wholesome and bitter — Thou art kind 
And I am blessed to my mind. 

' Gifted for giving, T receive 

The maythorn, and its scent outgive ! 

I grieve not that I cnce did grieve. 

' Tn my large joy of sight and touch 
Beyond what others count for such, 
I am content to suffer much. 

' I knmv — is all the mourner sailh. 
Knowledge by suffering entereth ; 
And life is perfected by Death 1' ' 



The child spake nobly. Strange to hear 
His infantine sott accents clear. 
Charged with high meanings, did ap- 
pear. 

And fair to see, his form and face, 
Winged out with whiteness and pi-.re 

grace 
From the green darkness of the place. 

Behind his head a palm-tree grew ; 
An orient beam which pierced it through 
Transversely on his forehead drew 

The figure of a palm-branch brown 
Traced on its brightness up and down 
In fine fair lines, — a shadow-crown. 

Giiido might paint his angels so — 
A little angel, taught to go 
With holy words to saints below. 

Such innocence of action yet 

Significance of object met 

In his whole bearing strong and sweet. 

And all the children, the whole band. 
Did round in rosy reverence stand. 
Each with a palm-bough in his hand. 

' And so he died,' I whispered ; — ' Nay, 
ISot so' the childish voice did say — 
' That poet turned him, first, to pray 

' In silence ; and God heard the rest, 
'TwLxt the sun's footsteps down tha 

west. 
Then he called one who loved him best, 

' Yea, he called softly through the room 
(His voice was weak yet tender,' — 

'Come,' 
He said, ' come nearer ! Let the bloom 

' Of Life grow over, iindenied. 

This bridge of Death, which is ni t 

wide — 
I shall be soon at the other side. 

' Come, kiss me !' So the one in truth 
Who loved him best — in love, not nith. 
Bowed down and kissed him mouth to 
mouth. 



CROWNED AND WEDDED. 



'And, in tliat kiss of Love, was won 
Lite's manumission : All was done — 
The moiUli tnac kissed last, kissed alone. 

' B.it in the former, confluent kiss, 
Tne same was sealed, 1 think, by His, 
To words of trui.i and uprightness.' 

The child's voice trembled — his lips 

shook 
Like a rose leaning over a brook. 
Which vibrates though it is not struck. 

'And who,' I asked, ,-x little moved 
Yet curioiis-eyed, ' was this that loved 
And kissed him last, aj it behooved '; ' 

'/,' softly said the child ; and then, 

* /,' said he louder, once again. 

' llis son, — my rank is among men. 

' And now that men cxnlt his name 
I come to gather palms with them. 
That holy Lovj may hallow Fame. 

• He did not die alone ; nor should 
His memory live so, ' mid these rude 
World pralsers — a worse solitude. 

' Ale, a voire calleth to that tomb 
Where these are strewing branch and 

bloom. 
Saying, come nearer ! — and I come. 

' Glory to God ! ' resumed he. 

And his eyes smiled for victory 

O'er their own tears which I could see 

Fallen on the palm, down cheek and 

chin 
' That poet now hath entered in 
The place of rest which is not sin. 

' ' And while he rests, his songs in troops 
Walk v.-^ and down our earthly slopes, 
Companioned by diviner Hopes.' 

' But thou,' I murmured, — to engage 
'I hj child's speech farther — ' hast an age 
Too tender for this orphanage.' 

' Glory vO God — to God ! ' he saith — 

K.NOW LEDGE I'.Y SUFFERING ENDURETH ; 

And ufe u i-epfectiiu uy Death ! ' 



CROWNED AND WEDDEI>. 

When last before her people's face her 

own lair lace she bent. 
Within the mee.c projection of that shade 

she was content 
To erase the chilu-smile from her lips, 

which leemed as if it might 
Be still kept l.oly from the world tc 

childhood st.d in sight — ■ 
To erase it with a solemn vow — a prince 

ly vow — to rule — 
A priestly vow — to rule by grace of God 

thopit^f.d, 
A very god-l.ke vow — to rule in right 

and righteousness. 
And with the law and for the land ! — so 

God the vower bless! 
The m. niter w.u aligtil that day, but 

not with fire, 1 ween. 
And long-draw.i glittenngs swept adown 

that mighty aisled scene : 
The priests stood stoled in their pomp, 

the sworaed chiefs in theirs. 
And so, the collared knights,— and so, 

the civil ministers. 
And so. the waiting lords and dames — 

and little p.ages best 
At holding trains— and legates so, from 

countries east and west — 
So, alien prmce;, native peers, and high- 
born ladie.; bright. 
Along whose brows the queen's new 

crowned, (lashed coronets to light ! 
And so, the people at the gates, with 

priestly hands on high. 
Which bring the first anointing to all 

legal majesty. 
And so the DiiAD— who lie in rows be- 
neath the minster floor. 
There, verily an awful state maintain- 
ing evermore — 
The statesman v. hose clean palm will 

kiss no bribe whate'er it be — 
The courtier, who, for no fair queen 

will rise up to his knee — 
The court-dame who, for no court-tire, 

will leave her .shroud behind — 
The laureate who no courilier rhyme 

than ' dust to dust ' can find — 
The kings and queens who having made 

that vow and worn that crown. 
Descended unto lower thrones F.nd dark- 
er, deep adown ! 



CROWNED AND BURIED. 



233 



Dieu et tnon droit — what is't to them ? 

what meaning can it have ? — 
The King of kings, the right of death — 

God's judgment aid the grave ! 
And when betwixt the quick and dead 

the young fair queen had vowed, 
The living shouted 'May she Hve! 

Victoria, Hve !' aloud — 
And as the loyal shouts went up, true 

spirits prayed between, 
' The blessings happy monarchs have 

be thine, O crowned queen !' 
But now before her people's face she 

bendeth hers anew. 
And calls them, v/hile she vows, to be 

her witness thereunto. 
She vowed to rale, and in that oath, her 

childhood put away — 
She doth maintain her womanhood, in 

vowing love to-day. 
O, lovely lady ! — let her vow ! — such lips 

become such vows. 
And fairer gocth bridal wreath than 

crown with vernal brows ! 
O, lovely lady ! — let her vow ! — yea, let 

her vow to love ! — 
And though she be no less a queen — 

with purples hung above. 
The p.igea;it of a court behind, the 

royal kin around. 
And woven gold to catch her looks 

turned maidenly to ground. 
Yet may the bride-veil hide from her a 

little of that state, 
Whili loving hopes, for retinues, about 

her sweetness wait : 
She vowi to love who vowed to rule — 

the chosea at her side 
Let none say, GjJ preserve the queen ! 

— bat rather, Dless the bride ! 
None blow the trump, none bend the 

knee, none violate the dream 
Wherein no monarch but a wife, she to 

herself may seem : 
Or, if ye say. Preserve the queen ! — oh, 

breathe it inward low — 
She is a luoiuan and beloved ! — and 'tis 

enough but .so ! 
Count it enough, thou noble prince, who 

tak'st her by the hand. 
And claimest for thy lady-love, our lady 

of the land ! 
And since. Prince Albert, men have 

called thy spirit high and rare. 



And true to truth and brave for truth, 

as some at Augsburg were, — 
We charge thee, by thy lofty thoughts, 

and by thy poet-mind. 
Which not by glory and degree takes 

measure of mankind. 
Esteem that wedded hand less dear fjr 

sceptre than for ring. 
And hold her uncrowned womanhood 

to be the royal thing : 
And now, upon our queen's last vow, 

what blessings shall we pray ? 
None straitened to a shallow crown, 

will suit our lips to-day. 
Behold, they must be free as love— they 

must be broad as free. 
Even to the borders of heaven's light 

and earth's humanity. 
Long live she ! — send up loyal shout? — 

and true hearts pray between, — 
'The ble»'.sings happy i>EASANTb h.~vei 

be thine, O crowned queen 1' 



CROWNED AND DURIED. 

Napoleon ! — years ago, and that great 

word 
Compact of human breath in hate aa-1 

dread 
And exaltation, skied us overhead — 
An atmosphere whose lightning was th« 

sword 
Scathing the cedars of the world.' 

drawn down 
In burnings, by the metal of a crown. 

Napoleon ! Nations, while they curscJ 

that name. 
Shook at their own curse ; and whil? 

others bore 
Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before. 
Brass-fronted legions justified its fame— 
And dying men, on trampled batth .• 

sods. 
Near their last silence, uttered it fji 

God's. 

Napoleon! Sages, with high ( .■>heads 

drooped. 
Did use it for a problem ; chilt' m small 
Leapt up to greet it, as at »h''"hood's 

call: 



=34 



CK OWNED AND BURIED. 



Priests blessed it from their altars over- 

siooped 
By meek-eyed Christs, — and widows 

with a moan 
Spake it, when questioned why they sat 

alone. 

That name consumed the silence of the 
snows 

in Alpme keeping, holy and cloud-hid : 

The mimic eagles dared what Nature's 
did. 

And over-rushed her mountainous re- 
pose 

In search of eyries : and the Egyptian 
river 

Mingled the same word with its grand 
' for ever.' 

That name was shouted near the pyra- 
midal 

Nilotic tombs, whose mummied hati- 
lants, 

Packed to humanity's significance. 

Motioned it back with stillness : Shouts 
as idle 

As hireling artists* work of myrrh and 
spice 

Which swathed last glories round the 
Ptolemies. 

The world's face changed to hear it. 
Kingly men 

Came down .in chidden babts' bewilder- 
ment 

From autocratic places — each content 

With sprinkled ashes for anointing : — 
then 

The people laughed or wondered for the 
nonce. 

To .see one throne a composite of 
thrones. 

Napoleon ! Even the torrid vastitude 
Of India felt in throbbings of the air 
That name which scattered by disastrous 

blare 
A.11 Europe's bound-lines, — drawn afresh 

in blood ! 
Kapoleon — from the Russias, west to 

Spain ! 
And Austria trembled — till we heard her 

chain. 



And Germany was 'ware and Italy 

Oblivious of old fames — her laurel- 
locked, 

High-ghosted Caesars passing iinln. 
voked, — 

Did crtimble her own ruins with her 
knee. 

To serve a newer : — Ay ! but French- 
men cast 

A future from them nobler than her 
past. 

For, verily, though France augustly 

rose 
With that raised name, and did assume 

by such 
The purple of the world, — none gave .so 

much 
As she in purchase — to speak plain, in 

loss^ 
Whose hir:ds, to freedom stretched, 

dropped paralyzed 
To wield a sword or fit an undersized 

King's crown to a great man's head. 
And though along 

Her Paris's streets, did float on fre- 
quent streams ' 

Of triumph, pictured cr emmarbled 
dreams, 

Dreampt right by genius in a world gone 
wrong, — 

No dream, of all so won, was fair to see 

As the lost vision of her liberty. 

Napoleon ! 'twas a high name hfted 
high ! 

It met at last God's thunder sent to 
clear 

Our compassing and covering atmos- 
phere, 

And open a clear sight beyond the sky 

Of supreme empire : this of earth's was 
done — ■ 

And kings crept out again to feel the 
sun. 

The kings crept out — the peoples sat ."t 

home. 
And finding the long-invocated peace 
A pall embroidered with worn images 
Of rights divine, too scant to cover doom 
Such as they suffered, — cursed the corn 

that grew 
Rankly, to bitter bread, on Waterloo. 



CROWNED AND BURIED. 



KS 



A deep gloom centered in the deep re- 
pose — 

The nations stood up mute to count their 
dead — 

And he who owned the Name which 
vibrated 

Through silence, — Trusting to liIs no- 
blest foes 

When earth was all loo gra- for chiv- 
alry — 

Died of their mercies, 'mid the desert 
sea. 



O wild St. Helen ! very still she kept 

him. 
With a green willow for all pyramid. — 
Which stirred a little if the low wind 

did, 
A little more, if pilgrims overwept him 
Disparting the lithe boughs to see the 

clay 
Which seemed to cover his for judg- 
ment-day. 

Nay ! not so long ! — France kept lierold 

affection 
As deeply as the sepulchre the corse. 
Until ddated by such love's remorse 
To a new angel of the resurrection, 
She cried, ' Behold, thou England 1 I 

would have 
The dead whereof thou wottest from 

that grave.' 

And England answered in the courtesy 
Which ancient foes, turned lovers, may 

befit, — 
■ Take back thy dead 1 and when thou 

buriest it. 
Throw in all former strife 'twixt thee 

and me.' 
Amen, mine England ! 'tis .a courteous 

claim — 
But ask a little room too . . . for thy 

shame ! 



Because it was not well, it was not well. 
Nor timeful with thy lofty-chanted part 
Among the Oceaniaes, — that heart 
To bind and bars and vex with vulture 
fell. 



I would, my noble England, men migl-.r 

seek 
All crimson stains upon thy breast^not 

cheek 1 

I would that hostile fleets had scarreA 

Torbay, 
Instead of the lone ship which waited 

moored 
Until thy princely purpose was assured. 
Then lelt a j/zart'OTt/— not to pass away — 
Not for to-night's moon, nor to-morrow's 

sun ! 
Green watching hills, ye witnessed what 

was done 1 

And since it ivas done, — in the sepul 

chral dust 
We fain would pay back something of 

our debt 
To France, if not to honor, and forget 
How through much fear we falsified 

the trust 
Of a fallen foe and exile : — We returit 
Orestes to Electra ... in his urn. 

A little urn — a little dust inside. 
Which once outbalanced the large earth, 

albeit 
To-day a four-years child might carry it 
Sleek-browed and smiling, ' Let the bur- 
den 'bide !' 
Orestes to Electra ! — O fair town 
Of Paris, how the wild tears will run 
down 

And run back in the chariot-marks of 

1 ime, 
When all the people shall come forth to 

meet 
The passive victor, death-still in the 

street 
He rode through 'mid the shouting and 

bell-chime 
And martial music, — under eagles which 
Dyed their rapacious beaks at Auster- 

litz. 

Napoleon ! he hath come again — borne 
home 

Upon the popular ebbing heart, — a sea 

Which gathers its own wrecks per- 
petually, 

Majcitically moaning. Give him room 1 



«3(! 



A FLOiyER IN A LETTER. 



Room for the dead in Paris 1 welcome i 
solemn 

And grave deep, 'neath the cannon- 
moulded column 1* 

There, weapon spent and warrior spent 

miy rest 
From roar of fields : provided Jupiter 
D.ire trust baturnus to lie down so near 
His bolts I — 'And this he vtay. For, dis- 

poisessed 
Of any godship lies the godlike arm^ 
The goat, Jove sucked, as likely to do 

harm. 

And yet . . . Napoleon 1 — the recov- 
ered name 

Shakes tha old casements of the world I 
and we 

Look out upon the pxssing pageantry. 

Attesting that the Dead makes good his 
claim 

To a French grave, — another kingdom 
won, 

The last — of few spans — by Napoleon. 

Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise 

— iooth ! 
Butglittercd dew-like in the covenanted 
Meridian light. He was a despot — 

granted ! 
But the autos of his autocratic mouth 
Said yea i' the people's French : he 

magnified 
The image of the freedom he denied. 

And if they asked for rights, he made 
reply, 

■Ye have my glory !' — and so, drawing 
round tliem 

His ample purple, glorified and bound 
them 

In an embrace that seemed identity. 

He ruled them like a tyrant — true I but 
none 

Were ruled like slaves ! Each felt Na- 
poleon I 

I do not praise this man : the man was 

flawed 
For Adam — much more, Christ! — his 

knee unbent — 

t.i liiiry liim n:i- 



His hand unclean^his aspiration f 
Within a sword-sweep — pshaw ! - 

since he had 
The genius to be laved, why let 

liave 
The justice to be honored in his grave. 

I think this nation's tears poured thus 

together. 
Better than shouts : I think this funeral 
Grander than crownings, though a Pope 

bless all : 
I think this grave stronger than thrones: 

But whether 
The crowned Napoleon or the buried 

clay 
Be worthier, I discern not — Angels may. 



A FLOWER IN A LETTER. 

My lonely chamber next the sea, 
Is full of many flowers set free 

By suininer's earliest duty ; 
Dear friends upon the garden-walk 
Might stop amid their fondest talk, 

To pull the least in beauty. 

A thousand flowers— each seeming one 
That learnt, by gazing on the sun, 

I'o counterfeit his shining — 
Within whose leaves the holy dew 
That falls from heaven, hath won anew 

A glory ... in declining. 

Red roses used to praises long, 
Contented with the poet's song. 

The nightingale's being over : 
And liUe ; while, prepared to touch 
The whitest thouglit, nor soil it much, 

Of dreamer turned to lover. 

Deep violets you liken to 

The kindest eyes that look on you. 

Without a thought disloyal : 
And cactuses, a queen might don. 
If weary of a golden crown. 

And still appear as royal. 

Pansies for Ladies all,— I wis 

That none who wear such brooches, mi.>» 

A jewel in the mirror : 
And tulips, children love to stretch 
I'heir fingers down, to feel in each 

Its beauty's secret nearer. 



A FLOIVER AV A LETTER. 



Love's language may be talked with 

tliese 
To work out choicest sentences, 

No blossoms can be meeter, 
And such being used in Eastern bowers, 
Young' maids may wonder if the flowers 

Or meanings be the sweeter. 

And such being strewn before a bride, 
Her little foot may turn aside. 

Their longer bloom decreemg ; 
Unless some voice's whispered sound 
Should make her gaze upon the ground 

Too earnestly for seeing. 

And such being scattered on a grave, 
Whoever mourneth there may have 

A type which seemeth worthy 
Of that fair body hid below 
Which bloomed on earth a time ago, 

Then perished as the earthy. 

And such being wreathed for worldly 

feast. 
Across the brimming cup some guest 

1 heir rainbow colors viewing. 
May feel them, — with a silent start. 
The covenant, his childish heart 

With nature made, — renewing 

No flowers our gardened England hath. 
To m 'tch with these in bloom and breath 

Which from the world are hiding 
In sunny D^vo.i moist with rills, 
A nimnery of cloistered hills. 

The elements presiding. 

By Loddon's stream the fiowers are fair 
That meet one gifted lady's care 

With, prodigal rewarding ; 
For Heiuty is too used to run 
To Mitford's bower — to want the .sun 

To light her through the garden. 

But, hrre, all summers arc comprised — 
The nightly fronts shrink exorcised 

Before th-; priestly moonshtne : 
And every Wind with stoled feet. 
In w.^'id^'inz down the alleys sweet. 

Steps lightly on the sunshme : 

And {having promised Harpocrate 
Among the nodding roses, that 

No harm shall touch his daughter.s) 



Gives quite away the rushing sound, 
He dares not use upon such ground. 
To ever-trickling waters. 

Yet, sun and wind 1 what can ye do, 
But make the leaves more brightly show 

In posies newly g.athered ? 
I look away from all your best ; 
To one poor flower unlike the rest, 

A little flower half-withered. 

I do not think it ever was 

A pretty flower,— to make the grass 

Look greener where it reddened ; 
And now It seems ashamed to be 
Alone in all this company, 

Of aspect shrunk and saddened. 

A cha'mber-window was the spot 
It grew in, from a garden-pot, 

Among the city shadows ; 
If any, tending it, might seem 
To smile, 'twas only in a dream 

Of nature in the meadows. 

How coldly on its head did fall 
The sunshine, from the city wall 

In pale refraction driven! 
How sadly plashed upon its leaves' 
The raindrops, losing in the eaves 

The first sweet news of Heaven ! 

And those who planted, gathered it 
In gamesome or in loving fit. 

And sent it as .a token 
Of what their city pleasures be, — 
For one, in Devon by the se.a 

And garden-blooms, to look on. 

Bit SHE, for whom the jest was meant. 
With a grave passion innocent 

Receiving what was given, — 
Oh ! if her face she turned then. 
Let none say 'twas to gaze again 

Upon the flowers of Devon 1 

Because, whatever virtue dwells 
In genial skies — warm oracles 

For gardens brightly springing, — 
The flower which grew beneath your 
eyes, 

Beloved friends, to mine supplies 

A beauty worthier singing ! 



TO BETTINE. 



TO BETTINE, 



THE CHILD FRIEND OF GOETHE. 



B!^;TTIne, friend of Goethe, 
Hadst ihoLi the second sight- 
Upturning worship and dehght 

With such a loving duty 
To his grand face, as women will. 
The childhood 'neath thnie eyelids still ' 



Befo«-e his shrine to doom thee 
U-mg the same child's smile 
That heaven and earth, beheld erewhile 

For the first time, won from thee. 
Ere star and flower grew dim and dead, 
Save at his feet and o'er his head. 



Digging thine heart and throwing 
Away its childhood's gold, 
That so its woman-depth might hold 

flis voirit's overflowing. 
For surging souls, no worlds can bound, 
'i'heir channel in the heart have found. 



O child, to change appointed, 
Thou hadst not second sight ! 
What eyes the future view aright. 

Unless by tears anointed ? 
Yea, only tears themselves can show 
']"he burning ones that have to flow. 



O woman, deeply loving. 
Thou hadst not second sight ! 
The star is very high and bright. 

Anil none can see it moving. 
I.ove looks around, below, above, 
^'et all his prophecy is — love. 



The l)lrd thy childhood's playin; 
Sent onward o'er the sea. 
Thy dove of hope came back to ihec 



Without a leaf. Art laying 
Its wet cold wing no sun can dry. 
Still m thy bosom secretly? 



Our Goethe's friend, Bettine, 
I have the second sight ! 
The stone upon his grave is white. 

The funeral stone between ye ; 
And in thy mirror thou hast viewed 
Some change as hardly understood. 



Where's childhood ? where is Goethe t 
The tears are in thine eyes. 
Nay, thou shalt yet reorganise 

I'hy maidenhood of beauty 
In his own glory, which is smooth 
Of wrinkles and sublime in youth. 



The poet's arms have wound thee, 
He breathes upon thy brow. 
He lifts thee upward in the glow 

Of his great genius round thee, — 
The childlike poet undefiled 
Preserving evermore The Child. 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



TO I.. E. I.., REFERRI.VG TO HER MONOUV 
CM THAT I'OETESS. 



Thou bay-crowned living One that o'er 

the bay-crowned Dead art bowing. 
And o'er the shadeless moveless brow 

the vital shadow throwing ; 
And o'er the sighless songless lips the 

wail and music wedding ; 
And dropping o'er the tranquil eyes, the 

tears not of their shedding ! — 



Take music from the silent Dead, whose 

meaning is completer ; 
Reserve thy tears for living bro'.v;;, 

where all such tears are meeter ; 
And leave the violets in the grxss n 

brighten where thou treadest ! 
No flowers for her ! no need of flower- — 

albeit " bring flowers," thou saides^. 




BETTINE. 



flfy HEART AND I. 



930 



Yes, flowers, to crown the " cup ?.nd 

lute !" since both may come to 

breaking : 
Or flowers, to greet the ' bride !' the 

heart's own beating works its aching: 
Or flowers, to soothe the 'captive's' sight, 

from earth's free bosom gathered. 
Reminding of his earthly hope, then 

withering as it withered ! 



But bring not near the solemn corse, a 

type of human seeming ! 
Lay only dust's stern verity upon the 

dust undreaming. 
And while the calm perpetual stars shall 

look \ipon It solely. 
Her sphered soul shall look on them, 

with eyes more bright and holy. 



Nor mourn, O living One, because her 

part in life was mourning. 
Would she have lost the poet's fire for 

anguish of the burning ? — 
The minstrel harp, for the strained 

string? the tripod, for the afilated 
Woe ? or the vision, for those tears in 

which it shone dilated ? 



Perhaps she shuddered while the world's 

cold hand her brow was wreathmg. 
But never wronged that mystic breath 

which breathed in all her breathuig; 
Which drew from rocky earth and man, 

abstractions high and moving — 
Beauty, if not the beautiful, and love, 

if not the loving. 



Such visionings have paled iu sight ; the 
Saviour she descrieth. 

And little recks 'mIlo wreathed the brow 
which on His bosom lieth. 

The whiteness of His innocence o'er all 
her garments flowing. 

There, learneth she the sweet ' nev/ 
song,* she will not mourn m know- 
ing. 



Be happy, crowned and living One ! 

and, as thy dust decayeth, 
May thine own England say f&r thee, 

what now for her it sayeth — 
' Albeit softly in our ears her silver song 

was ringing, 
The foot-fall of her parting ioul is softer 

than her singing !' 



iMY HEART AKD I. 



Enough ! we're tired, my heart and I. 
We sit beside the headstone thus. 
And wish that name were carved fo> 
us. 
The moss reprints more tenderly 

The hard types of the mason's knife. 
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's 
life 
With which we're tired, my heart and I. 



You see we're tired, my heart and I. 
We dealt with books, we trusted men. 
And in our own blood drenched the 
pen. 
As if such colors could not fly. 

We walked too straight for fortune's 

end. 
We loved too true to keep a friend ; 
At last we're tired, my heart and I. 



How tired we feel, my heart and I ! 

We seem of no use in the world ; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncur ed 
About men's eyes indiflercntly , 

Our voice which thrilled you so, will 
let 

You sleep : our tears are only wet : 
What do wc here, my heart .tnd I. 



So titcd, so tired, my heart and I ! 
It was not thus m that old time 
When Ralph sat with me neath the 
lime 



34° 



IFJSDOM UNAPPUED. 



To watch the sunset from the sky. 

' Dear love, you're looking tired,' he 
said ; 

I, smiling at mm, shook my head : 
'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. 



If I were thou, O working bee. 
And all that honey-gold I see 
Could delve from roses easily ; 



So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 

Though now none takes me on his 
arm 

To fold me close and kiss mc warm 
Till each quick breath end m a sigh 

Of happy languor. Now, alone. 

We lean upon this graveyard stone, 
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and J. 



Tired out we are. my heart and I. 
Suppose the world brought diadems 
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. 
We scarcely care to look at even 
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 
I Wc feel so tired, my heart and I. 



Yet who complains ? My heart and I ? 
In this abundant earth no doubt 
Is little room for things worn out ; 
Disdain them, break them, throw them 
by! 
And if before the days grew rough 
We once were loved, used, — well 
enough, 
I think, we've fared, my neart and I. 



WISDOM UNAPPLIED. 



If I were thou, O butterfly. 

And poised mv purple wings to spy 

The sweetest flowers that live and die. 



] would not waste my strength on those. 
As thou, — for summer hath a close. 
And pansies bloom not in the snows. 



I IV. 

I would not hive it at man's door. 
As thou, — that heirdom of my stora 
Should make him rich, and leave me 
poor. 

V. 

If I were thou, O Eagle proud. 

And screamed the thunder back aloi,d. 

And faced the lightning from the cloud; 



I would not build my cyrie-throne. 
As thou, — upon a crumbling stone. 
Which the ne.xt storm may trample 
down. 



If I were thou, O gallant steed, 
With pawing hoof, and dancing head. 
And eye outrunning thine own speed ; 



I would not meeken to the rein. 

As thou, — nor smooth my nostril plain 

From the glad desert's snort and strain. 



If T were thou, red-breasted bird. 
With song at shut up window heard. 
Like Love's sweet Yes too long de- 
ferred ; 



I would not overstay delight. 

As thou, — but take a swallow-flight, 

Till the new spring returned to sight. 



While yet I spake, a touch was laid 
Upon my brow, whose pride did fade 
As thus, methought, an angel said : 



'• If I were ihoii who sin.g'st this song. 
Most wise for others : and most strong 
lu seeing right while doing wrong ; 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 



' I would not waste my cares and 

choose, 
As thou, — to seek what thou must lose. 
Such gains as perish in the use. 



' I would not work where none can win, 
As thou, — half way 'twixt grief and sin. 
But look above and jvidge within. 



' I would not let my pulse beat high. 
As thou. — towards fame's regality. 
Nor yet in love's great jeopardy. 



' I would not champ the hard cold bit. 
As thou, — of what the world thnks fit. 
But takes God's freedom using it. 



' I would not play earth's winter out. 
As thou ; but gird my soul about, 
And live for life past death and doubt. 



' Then sing, O singer ! — but allow 
Beast, fly and bird, called foolish now. 
Are wise (for all thy scorn) as thou ! ' 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 

' There is no God,' the foolish saith. 

But none, ' There is no sorrow ;' 
And nature oft, the cry of faith. 

In bitter need will borrow : 
Eyes which the preacher could not 
school. 

By wayside graves are raised ; 
And lips say, ' God be pitiful,' 

Who ne'er said, ' God be praised.' 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The tempest stretches from the steep 

The shadow of its coming ; 
The beasts grow tame, and near us 

creep. 
As help were in the human : 
Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and 

grind 



We spirits tremble under ! — 
The hills have echoes ; but we find 
No answer for the thunder. 

Be pitiful, O God 1 

The battle hurtles on the plains — 

Earth feels new scythes upon her : 
We reap our brothers for the wains. 

And call the harvest . . honor, — 
Draw face to face, front line to line. 

One image all inherit, — 
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign. 

Clay, clay, — and spirit, spirit. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

The plague runs festering through the 
town, 

And never a bell is tolling : 
And corpses jostled 'neath the moon. 

Nod to the dead-cart's rolling. 
The young child calleth for the cup — 

The strong man brings it weeping ; 
The mother from her babe looks up. 

And shrieks away its sleeping. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The plague of gold strides far and near. 

And deep and strong it enters : 
This purple chimar which we wear. 

Makes madder than the centaur's. 
Our thoughts grow blank, our words 
grow strange ; 

We cheer the pale gold-diggers — 
Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, 

And marked, like sheep, with figures. 
Be pitiful, O God ! 

The curse of gold upon the land. 

The lack of bread enforces — 
The rail -cars snort from strand to strand. 

Like more of Death's White Horses I 
The rich preach ' rights ' and future 
days. 

And hear no angel scoffing : 
The poor die mute — with starv-r.j gaze 

On corn-ships in the offing. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

We meet together at the feast-- 
To private mirth betake us — 

We stare down in the winecup lest 
Some vacant chair should shake us! 

We name delight, and pledge it round— 
' It shall be ours to-morrow t ' 



A LA}- or THE EARLY ROSE. 



God's seraphs do your voices sound 
As sad in naming sorrow 1 

Be pitiful, O God I 

We sit together, with the skies. 

The steadfast skies, above us : 
We look into each other's eyes, 

'And how long will you love us?' 
The eyes grow dim with prophecy. 

The voices low and breathless — 
'Till death us part ! ' — O words, to be 

Our best for love the deathless ! 

Be pitiful, dear God ! 

We tremble by the harmless bed 

Of one loved and departed — 
Our tears drop on the lids that said 

Last night, ' Be stronger hearted !' 
O God, — to clasp those fingers close. 

And yet to feel so lonely ! — 
To see a light upon such brows. 

Which is the daylight only ! 

Be pitiful, O Cod ! 

The happy children come to us. 

And look up in our faces : 
They ask us — Was it thus, and thus. 

When we were in their places ? 
We cannot speak : — we see anew 

The hills we used to live in ; 
And feel our mother's smile press 
through 

The kisses she is giving. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

We pray together at the kirk. 
For mercy, mercy, solely — 

Hands weary with the evil work. 
We lift them to the Holy ! 

The corpse is calm below our knee- 
Its spirit bright before Thee— 

Between them, worse than either, we — 
Without the rest of glory ! 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

We leave the communing of men. 

The murmur of the passions ; 
And live alone, to live again 

With endless generations. 
Are we so brave '>. — The sea and sky 

In silence lift their mirrors ; 
And, glassed therein, our spirits h/gh 

Recoil from their own terrors. 

Be pitiful, O God ! I 



We sit on hills our childhood wist, 

Wood-s, hamlets, streams, beholding : 
The sun strikes through the farthest 
mist. 
The city's spire to golden. 
The city's golden spire it was. 

When hope and health were stron- 
ge.st,^ 
But now it is the churchyard grass. 
We look upon the longest. 

Be pitiful, O God J 

And soon all vision waxeth dull- 
Men whisper, ' He is dying : ' 

We cry no more, ' Be pitiful ! ' — 
We have no strength for crying : 

No strength no need ! Then, Soul of 
mine. 
Look up and triumph rather — 

Lo ! in the depth of God's Divine, 
The Son adjures the Father — 

Be pitiful, O Gou I 



A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE, 



A ROSE once grew within 

A garden April-green, 
In her loneness, in her loneness. 
And the fairer for that oneness. 

A w-hite rose delicate, 
On a tall bough and straight 1 
Early comer, early comer, 
Never waiting for the summer. 

Her pretty guests did win 

South winds to let her in. 
In her loneness, in her loneness. 
All the fairer for that oneness. 

' For if I wait,' said she, 

' Till time for roses be, — 
For the moss-rose and the musk -rose. 
Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose, — 

' What glory then for me 

In such company ? — 
Roses plenty, roses plenty. 
And one nightingale for twenty t 



A LAV OF THE EARLY ROSE. 



'Nay, let me in,' said she, 

' Before the rest are free,— 
In my loneness, in my loneness, 
All the fairer for that oneness. 

' For I would lonely stand, 

Uplifting my white hand. 
On a mission, on a mission. 
To declare the coming vision. 

'Upon which lifted sign. 
What worship will be mine? 
What addressing, what caressing I 
And what thank and praise and hless- 
ing I 

'A win>d like joy will rush 
Through every tree and bush. 

Bending softly in affection 

And spontaneous benediction. 

' Insects, that only may 

Live in a sunbright ray. 
To my whiteness, to my whiteness. 
Shall be drawn, as to a brightness, — 

' And every moth and bee. 

Approach me reverently ; 
Wheeling o'er me, wheeling o'er me, 
Coronals of motioned glory. 

'Three larks shall leave a cloud ; 

To my whiter beauty vowed— 
Singing gl.adly all the moontide. 
Never w.iiting for the suntide. 

'Ten nightingales shall flee 
Their woods for love of me. 
Singing sadly all the suntide. 
Never waitmg for the moontide. 

' I ween the very skies 
Will look down with surprise, 
When low on earth they see me, 
With my starry aspect dreamy 1 

' And e.arth will call her flowers 

To hasten out of doors. 
By their curtsies and sweet-smelling. 
To give grace to my foretelling.' 

So praying, did she win 

South winds to let her in, 
In her loneness, in her loneness. 
And the fairer for that oneness. 



But ah ! — alas for her I 

No thing did minister 
To her praises, to her praises, 
More than might imto a daisy's. 

No tree nor bush was seen 

To boast a perfect green : 
Scarcely having, scarcely having 
One leaf broad enough for waving. 

The little flies did crawl 

Along the southern wall, 
Faintly shifting, faintly shifting 
Wnigs scarce strong enough for lifting. 

The lark, too high or low, 

I ween, did miss her so ; 
With his nest down in the gorses, 
And his song in the star-courses. 

The nightingale did please 

To loiter beyond seas. 
Guess him in the happy islands. 
Learning music from the silence. 

Only the bee, forsooth. 

Came in the place of both ; 
Doing honor, doing honor. 
To the honey-dews upon her. 

The skies looked coldly down. 

As on a royal crown ; 
Then with drop for drop, at leisure, 
They began to rain for pleasure. 

Whereat the earth did seem 

To w.aken from a dream. 
Winter-frozen, winter-frozen. 
Her unquiet eyes unclosing — 

Said to the Rose — ' Ha, snow I 

And art thou fallen so '? 
Thou, who w.ast enthroned stately 
All along my mountains lately ? 

' Holla, thou world-wide snow I 

And art ihou wasted so ? 
With a little bough to catch thee. 
And a little bee to watch thee I ' 

—Poor Rose to be misknown I 
Would, she had ne'er been blown. 
In her loneness, in her loneness. 
All the sadder for that oneness 1 



244 



A LAV OF thf: early rose. 



Some word she tried to say- 
Some no . . . ah, wellaway ! 
Bit the passion did o'ercome her, 
And the fair frail leaves dropped from 
her^ 

Dropped from her, fair and mute. 

Close to a poet's foot, 
Who beheld them, smiling slowly, 
As at something sad yet holy ; 

Said, 'Verily and thus 

It chanceth too with ux 
Poets singing sweetest snatches, 
While that deaf men keep the watches— 

' Vaunting to come before 

Our own age evermore, 
In a lonene-is, in a loneness. 
And the nobler for that oneness I 

' Holy in voice and heart, 

To high ends, set apart 1 
All unmated, all unmated, 
Just because so consecrated, 

' But if alone we be. 

Where is our empery ? 
And if none can reach our stature. 
Who can mete our lofty nature ? 

' What bell will yield a tone, 

Swung in the air alone ? 
If no brazen clapper bringing. 
Who can hear the chimed ringing? 

'What angel, but would seem 
To sensual eyes, ghost-dim ? 

And without assimilation. 

Vain is inter-penetration. 

' And thus, what can we do, 

Poor rose and poet too. 
Who both antedate our mission 
In an unprepared season ? 

' Drop leaf— be silent song- 
Cold things we come among. 

We must warm them. We mui^t warm 
them. 

Ere we ever hope to charm them. 

' Howbeit ' (here his face 
Lightened round the place,— 



So to mark the outward turning 
Of his spirit's inward burning.) 

' Something it is, to hold 

In God's worlds manifold, 
First revealed to creature-duty, 
Some new form of His mild Beauty I 

' Whether that form respect 

The sense or intellect, 
Holy be in mood or meadow. 
The Chief Beauty's sign and shadow 1 

' Holy, in me and thee. 
Rose fallen from the trce,^- 

Though the world stand dumb around 
lis. 

All unable to expound us. 

' Though none m deign to bless, 

Blessed are we, nathless : 
Blessed still and consecrated. 
In that, rose, we were created. 

' Oh, shame to poet's lays 
Sung for the dole o/ praise, — 

Hoarsely sung upon the highway 

With that obuluiit da mihi. 

Shame, shame to poet's soul, 

Pinuig for such a dole. 
When Heaven-chosen to inherit 
The high throne of a chief spirit I 

' Sit still tipon your thrones, 

O ye poetic ones ! 
And if, sooth, the world decry you. 
Let it pass unchallenged by you ! 

' Ye to yourselves suffice, 

Without its flatteries. 
Self-contentedly approve you 
Unto Him who sits above you, — 

' In prayers that upward mount 

Like to a fair-sunned fount 
Which, in gushing back upon you. 
Hath an Upper music won you. 

' In faith — ^that still perceives 
No rose can shed her leaves. 

Far less, poet fall from mission — 

With an unfulfilled fruition 1 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 



245 



' In hope — that apprehends 
An end beyond these ends ; 
And great uses rendered duly 
By the meanest song sung truly I 

' ' In thanks— for all the good, 

By poets understood — 
For the sound of seraphs moving 
Down the hidden depths of loving,- 



' For life, so lovely-vain. 

For death which breaks the chain,— 
For this sense of present sweetness, — 
And this yearning to completeness I ' 

' For sights of things away. 
Through fissures of the clay. 
Promised things which shall be given 
And sung over, up in Heaven,— 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS, MAY. 

To the belfry, one by one. went the ringers from the sun, Toll slmvly. 

And the oldest ringer said, ' Ours is music for the Dead, 
Whetl the Rebecks are all done.' 

Six abeles i' the churchyard grow on the northside in a row. Toll sloivly. 

And the shadows of their tops rock across the little slopes 
Of the grassy graves below. 

On the south side and the west, a small river rims in haste, Tall slowly. 

And between the river flowing and the fair green trees a growing 
Do the dead lie at their rest. 

On the east I sate that day, up against a willow gray ; Toll slowly. 

Through the rain of willow-branches, I could see the low hill ranges. 
And the river on its way. 

There I sate beneath the tree, and the bell tolled solemnly, 7'oll slowly. 

While the trees and river's voices flowed between the solemn noises, — 
Yet death seemed more loud to me. 

There, I read this ancient rhyme, while the bell did all the time TM slo%vly. 
And the solemn knell fell in with the tale of life and sin. 
Like a rhythmic fate sublime. 



THE RHYME. 

Broad the forest stood (I read) on the hills of Linteged^ Toll slo7uly. 

And three hundred years had stood mute adown each hoary Wood, 
Like a full heart having prayed. 

And the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, Toll slo^vly. 

And but little thought was theirs, of the silent antique years. 
In the building of their nest. 

Down the sun dropt large and red, on the towers of Linteged.^- Toll slov)ly . 
Lance and spear upon the height, bristling strange in fiery light. 
While the castle stood in shade. 



246 ■ RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 

There, the castle stood up hlack, with the red sun at its back, — Toll slowly. 

Like a sullen smouldering pyre, with a top that flickers fire, 
When the wind is on its track. 

And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall. Toll slaivly. 

And castle, seethed in blood, fourteen days and nights had stood. 
And to-night was near its fall 

Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since, a bride did come, — 

Toll slo7vly. 
One who proudly trod the floors, and softly whispered in the doors, 
" May good angels bless our home.' 

Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a front of constancies, — Toll slonvly. 

Oh, a bride of cordial mouth, — where the untired smile of youth 
Did light outward its own sighs. 

'Twas a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward, the Earl Toll sloiuly. 

Who betrothed her, twelve years old, for the sake of dowry gold, 
To his son Lord Leigh, the churl. 

But what time she had made good all her years of womanhood. Toll slowly. 

Unto both those Lords of Leigh, spake she out right sovranly, 
. My will runneth as my blood 

' And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's veins,' she said, — 

Toll slo7vly. 
' 'Tis my .vlU as lady free, not to wed a Lord of Leigh, 
But Sir Guy of Linteged.' 

The old Earl he smiled smooth, then he sighed for wilful youth. — Toll sloiuly. 
' Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and small, 
For so large a will, in sooth.' 

She, too, smiled by that same sign, — but her smile was cold and fine, — 

Toll slozuly. 
' Little hand clasps muckle gold ; or it were not worth the hold 
Of thy son, good uncle mine ! ' 

Then the young lord jerked his breath, and sware thickly in his teeth. 

Toll slo^vly. 
' He would wed his own betrothed, an she loved him, and she loathed. 
Let the life come or the death. 

Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her father's child might rise. Toll slowly. 

'Thy hoimd's blood, my Lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly heel,' quoth she, 
' And he moans not where he lies, 

'But a woman's will dies hard, in the hall or on the sward ! — Toll slowly. 

'By that grave, my lords, which made me orphaned girl and dowered l.-idy, 
I deny you wife and ward.' 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 247 

Unto each she bowed her heatl, and swept past with lofty tread. Toll slowly. 
Ere the midnight- bell had ceased, in the chapel had the priest 
Blessed her, bride of Lniteged. 

Fast and fain the bridal train along the night-storm ro'e amain : Toll slotuly. 
Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck their hoofs out on the turf, 
In the pauses of the rain. 

Fast and fain the kinsmen's train along the storm pursued amain — Toll slowly. 
Steed on steed-track, dasliing off— thickening, doubling hoof on hoof, 
In the pauses of the rain. 

And the bridegroom led the flight on his red-roan steed of might, Toll slowly. 
And the bride lay on his arm, still as if she feared no harm, 
Smiling out into the night. 

Dost thou fear ? ' he said at last ;— ' Nay 1 ' she answered him in haste, — 

Toll slowly. 
"Not such death as we could find—only life with one behind — 
Ride on fast as fear — ride fast ! ' 

Up the mount.iin wheeled the steed— girth to ground, and fetlocks spread,— 

Toll slowly. 
Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks,— down he staggered— down the banks. 
To the towers of Linteged. 

Hieh and low the serfs looked out, red the flambeaus tossed about, — 

* Toll slotuly. 

In the courtyard rose the cry — ' Live the Duchess and Sir Guy ! ' 
But she never heard them shout. 

On the steed she dropt her cheek, kissed his mane and kissed his neck, — 

Toll slowly. 
' I had happier died by thee, than lived on a Lady Leigh,' 
Were the first words she did speak. 

But a three months' joyaunce lay 'twixt that moment and to-day, Toll slowly. 
When five hundred archers tall stand beside the castle wall, 
To recapture Duchess May. 

And the castle standeth black, with the red sun at its back, — Toll slo^vly. 

And a fort. light's siege is done — and, e.vcept the Duchess, none 
Can misdoubt the coming wrack. 

Then the captain, young Lord Leigh, with his eyes so gray of blee. 

Toll shnvly. 
And thin lips that scarcely sheath the cold white gnashing of his teeth. 
Gnashed in smiling, absently, 

Cried aloud — ' So goes the day, bridegroom fair of Duchess May !— 

Toll sla^vly. 
Look thy last upon that sun. If thou seest to-morrow's one, 
'Twill be through a foot of clay. 



a48 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 

' Ha, fair bride ! Dost hear no sound, save that moaning of the hound ?— 

Toll slcnvly. 
Thou and I have parted troth,— yet I keep my vengeance oath, 
And the other may come round. 

' Ha ! thy will is brave to dare, and thy new love past compare,— Tflll slmvly. 
Yet thine old love's falchion brave is as strong a thing to have. 
As the will of lady fair. 

■ Peck on blindly, netted dove ! — if a wife's name thee behove. Toll slcnvly 

Thou shalt wear the same tO'tnorrow, ere the grave has hid the sorrow 
Of thy last ill -mated love. 

'O'er his fixed and silent mouth, thou and 1 will call back troth. Toll slowly 
He shall altar be and priest, — and he will not cry at least 
I forbid you, — I am loath I ' 

'I will wring my fingers pale in the gauntlet of my mail. Toll sUnul 

' Little hand and muckle gold ' close shall lie within my hold. 
As the sword did to prevail.' 

the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang West, Toll slo7t'i. 
O, and laughed the Duchess May, and her soul did put away 

All his boasting, for a jest. 

In her chamber did she sit, laughing low to think of it,— Toll slo7itly, 

' Tower is strong and will is free — thou canst boast, my Lord of Leigh, 
But thouboasteth little wit.' 

In her tire-glass gazed .she. and she blushed right womanly. Toll sla^vty. 

She blusheahalf from her disdain — half, her beauty was so plain, 
— • Oath for oath, my Lord of Leigh I ' 

Straight she called her maidens in-^' Since ye gave me blame herein. 

Toll slowly. 
That a bridal such as mine should lack gauds to make it fine. 
Come and shrive me from that sin. 

' It is three months gone to-day, since I gave mine hand away. Tollshnoly. 

Bring the gold and bring the gem, we will keep bride state in them, 
While we keep the foe at bay. 

' On your arms I loose my hair ;— comb it smooth and crown it fair. 

Toll sUni'ly. 

1 would look in purple^pall from this lattice down the wall, 

And throw scorn to one that's there ! ' 

O, the little birds sang east, and the little birds .sang west. Toll slcnvly. 

On the tower the castle's lord leant in silence on his sword. 
With an anguish in his breast. 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 349 

With a spirit-laden weight, did he lean down passionate. Toll slowly. 

They have almost sapped the wall.^they will enter there withal, 
With no knocking at the gate. 

Then the sword he leant upon, shivered — snapped upon the stone,— 

Toll slowly. 

' Sword,' he thought, with inward laugh, ' ill thou servest for a staff 
When thy nobler use is done I 

' Sword, thy nobler use is done 1— tower is lost, and shame begun ; 

Toll slowly. 
If we met them in the breach, hilt to hilt or speech to speech, 
We should die there, each for one. 

' If we met them at the wall, we should singly, vainly fall,— Toll slowly. 

But if / die here alone,— then I die, who am but one, 
And die nobly for them all. 

• Five true friends lie for my sake^ — in the moat and in the brake, — 

Toll slowly. 
Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a black wound in the breast. 
And not one of these will wake. 

' And no more of this shall be !— heart-blood weighs too heavily— Tall slowly. 
And I could not sleep in grave, with the faithful and the brave 
Heaped around and over me. 

'Since young Clare a mother hath, and young Ralph a plighted faith. 

Tall slowly. 
Since my pale young sister's cheeks blush like rose when Ronald speaks. 
Albeit never a word she saith— 

'These shall never die for me— life-blood falls too heavily ; Toll slovily. 

And if /die here apart, — o'er my dead and silent heart 
They shall pass out safe and free. 

' When the foe hath heard it said — ' Death holds Guy of Linteged,' — 

Toll slowly. 
' That new corse new peace shall bring ; and a blessed, blessed thing. 
Shall the stone be at its head. 

' Then my friends shall pass out free, and shall bear my memory,— 

Toll slowly. 
Then my foes shall sleek their pride, soothing fair my widowed bride 
Whose sole sin was love of ine. 

' With their words all smooth and sweet, they will front her and entreat 

Toll slmuly. 
A.nd their purple pall will spread underneath her fainting head 
While her teai^ drop over it. 



<!So RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 

' She will weep her woman's tears, she will pray her woman's prayers, — 

Tdii slowly. 
But her heart is young in pain, and her hopes will spring again 
By the suntinie of her years, 

'Ah, sweet May— ah, sweetest grief! — once 1 vowed thee my belief, 

Toll slowly. 
That thy name expressed thy sweetness,— May of poets, in completeness 1 
Now my May -day seemeth brief.' 

All these silent thoughts did swim o'er his eyes grown strange and dim,— 

Toll shwly. 
Till his true men in the place, wished they stood there face to face 
With the foe instead of him. 

• One last oath, my friends that wear faithful hearts to do and dare !— 

Toll shyivly. 
Tower must fall, and bride be lost ! — swear me service worth the cost,' 
— Bold they stood around to swear. 

• Each man clasp my hand and swear, by the deed we failed in there, 

Toll slowly. 
Not for vengeance, not for right, will ye strike one blow to-night I ' 
Pale they stood around — to swear. 

• One last boon, young Ralph and Clare I faithful hearts to do and dare 1 

Toll slowly. 
Bring that steed up from his stall, which she kissed before you all, 
Guide him up the turret stair. 

' Ye shall hirness him aright, and lead upward to this height ! Tall slouily. 

Once in love and t',>'icc in ©ar, hath heborneme strong and far. 
He shall bear me far to-night.' 

Then his men looked to and fro, when they heard him speakmg so. 

Toll slowly. 
— ■ 'Las ! the noble heart,' they thought,—' he in sooth is grief-distraught. 
Would, we stood here with the foe ! ' 

But a fire flashed from his eye, 'twixt their thought and their reply,— 

Toll slowly. 
' Have ye so much time to waste I We who ride here, must ride f.ast. 
As we wish our foes to fly.' 

They have fetched the steed with care, in the harness he did wear. 

Toll sio^vly. 
Past the court and through the doors, across the rushes of the floors ; 
But they goad him up the stair. 

Then from out her bower chambSre, did the Duchess May repair. Toll slowly. 
•Tell me now fh.it is your need,' saidthe lady, ' of this steed, 
That y* ^oad him up the stair ? ' 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. ac 

Calm she stood ; unbodkined through, fell her dark hair to her shoe, — 

Toll slowly. 
And the smile upon her face, ere she left the tiring-glass, 
Had not time enough to go. 

' Get thee back, sweet Duchess May ! hope is gone like yesterday, — 

Toll slowly. 
One half-hour completes the breach ; and thy lord jjrows wild of speech. 
Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray. 

' In the east tower, high'st of all, — loud he cries for steed from stall. 
' Toll slowly. 

He would ride as far,' quoth he, ' as for love and victory, 
Though he rides the castle wall.' 

' And we fetch the steed from stall, up where never a hoof did fal\. — 

Toli slowly. 
Wifely prayer meets deathly need ! may the sweet Heavens hear thee plead. 
If he rides the castle-wall.' 

Low she dropt her head, and lower, till her hair coiled on the floor, — 

Toll slowly. 
And tear after tear you heard fall distinct as any word 
Which you might be listening for. 

Get thee in, thou soft ladie ! — here is never a place for thee ! — Toll slowly 

Braid thy hair and clasp thy gown, that thy beauty in its moan 
May find grace with Leigh of Leigh.' 

She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet stately face. Toll slowly. 

Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, seems to look 
Right against the thunder-place. 

And her foot trod in, with pride, her own tears i' the stone beside, — 

Toll slov)ly. 
' Go to, faithful friends, go to ! — Judge no more \vhat ladies do, — 
No, nor how their lords may ride ! ' 

Then the good steed's rein she took, and his neck did kiss and stroke : 

Toll slo'wly. 
Soft he neighed to answer her ; and then followed up the stair, 
For the love of her sweet look. 

Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the narrow stair around, — Toll sloTi'ly 

Oh, and closely speeding, step by step beside her treading. 
Did he ibllow, meek as hound. 

On the east tower, high'st of all, — there, where never a hoof did fall, — 

Toll slowly 
Out they swept, a vision steady, — noble steed and lovely lady, 
Calm as if in bower or stall ! 



25S RHYME or THE DUCHESS MAY. 

Down she knelt at her lord's knee, and she looked up silently, — Toll sltnuly. 
And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that Icok within her eyes 
Which he could not bear to see. 



Quoth he, ' Get thee from this strife, — and the sweet saints bless thy life ! — 

Toll slowly. 
In thi's hour, I stand in need of my noble red-roan steed — 
But no more of my noble wife.' 

Quoth she, ' Meekly have I done all thy biddings under sun : Toll slaivly. 

But by all my womanhood, — which is proved so true and good, 
I will never do this one. 

'Now by womanhood's degree, and by wifehood's verity. Toll slo^uly 

In this hour if thou hast need of thy noble red-roan steed, 
I'hou hast also need of }ite. 

• By this golden ring ye see on this lifted hand pardie. Toll slowly. 

If this hour, on castle- wall, can be room for steed from stall. 
Shall be also room for me. 

' So the sweet saints with me be ' did she utter solemnly,) Toll slo7vly. 

' If a man, this eventide, on this castle-wall will ride. 
He shall ride the same with inc.' 

Oh, he sprang up in the selle, and he laughed out bitter well,— Toll slo^vly. 

Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, as we used on other eves. 
To hear chime a vesper bell ?' 

She clang closer to his knee—' Ay, beneath the cypress tree !— Toil slowly. 

Mock me not : for otherwhere than along the green-wood fair. 
Have 1 ridden fast with thee ! 

' Fast I rode with new-made vows, from my angry kinsman's house ! 

Toll slowly. 
What ! and would you men should wreck that I dared more for love's sake 
As a bride than as a spouse ? • 

■ What, and would you it should fall, as a proverb, before all. Toll slo~wly. 

That a bride may keep your side while through castlegate you ride, 
Yet eschew the castle-wall ? ' 

Ho ! the breach yawns into ruin, and roars up against her suing,— Till slowly. 
With the inarticulate din, and the dreadful falling in— 
Shrieks of doing and undoing ! 

Twice he wrung her hands in twain ; but the small hands closed '^S^'i^^^^ ^^^,^^, 

Back he reined the steed— back, back ! but she trailed along his track 
With a frantic clasp and strain 1 



KUV.VK Or THE DUCHESS MAI'. 353 

Evermore the foemcin pour through the crash of window and door, — 

Toll slmvly. 
And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, and the shrieks of ' kill ! ' and ' flee ! ' 
Strike up clear amid the roar. 

Thrice he wrung her hands in twain, — but they closed and clung again, — 

Toll slcnvly. 
Wild she clung, as one, withstood, clasps a Christ upon the rood, 
In a spasm of deathly pain. 

She clung wild and she clung mute, — with her shuddering lips half-shut. 

Toll slcavly. 
Her head fallen as half in swound, — hair and knee swept on the ground. 
She clung wild to stirrup and feet. 

Back he reined his steed back-thrown on the slippery coping-stone. 

TjU slorioly. 
Back the iron hoofs did grind on the battlement behind. 
Whence a hundred feet went down. 

And his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank bestrode, Toll slo-,uly. 
' Friends and brothers, save my wife 1 — Pardon, sweet, in change for life, — 
But I ride alone to God.' 

Straight as if the Holy name had upbreathed her like a flame. Toll slowly. 

She upsprang, she rose upright, — ui his selle she sat in sight ; 
By her love she overcame. 

And her head was on his breast, where she smiled as one at re^t, — 

Toll slcnuly. 
' Ring,' she cried, ' O vesper-bell, in the beach-wood's old chapelle ! 
But the passing-bell rings best.' 

They have caught out at the rein, which Sir Guy threw loo=e — in vain. 

Toll sloT.vly. 
For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air. 
On the last verge rears amain. 

Now he hangs, he rocks between — and his nostrils curdle in. — Toll slazvly. 

And he shivers head and hoof— and the flakes of foam fall off; 
And his face grows fierce and thin ! 

And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go. Toll slozuly. 

And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony 
Of the headlong death below, — 

And ' Ring, ring, — thou passing-bell,' still she cried, ' i' the old chapelle ! — 

Toll slofwly. 
Then Back-toppling, crushing back, a dead weight flung out to wrack. 
Horse and riders overtell ! 



Oh, the little birds sang east, and little birds sang west, — Toll sloivly. 

And I read this ancient Rhyme ;n the churchyard, while the chima 
Slowly tolled for one at rest. 



.54 J^'^l^ LADTS •• VES." 

The abeles moved in the sun, and the river smooth did run, To/i ilmuly. 

And the ancient Rhyme rang strange, Vk'ith its passion and its change, 
Here, vfhere all done lay undone. 

And beneath a willow tree, I a little grave did see, Toll slmvly. 

Where was graved, — Here undefiled, lieth Maud, a three-year child. 
Eighteen hundred forty-three. 

Then, O Spirits— did I say — ye who rode so fast that day, — Toll slcnuly. 

Did star-wheels and angel-wings, with their holy wninowings. 
Keep beside you all the way ? 

Though in passion ye would dash, with a blind and heavy crash. Toll slonvly. 
Up against the thick-bossed shield of God's judgment in the field, — 
'I'hough your heart and brain were rash, — 

Now, your will is all imwilled — now your pulses are all stilled, — Toll sloruly. 
Now, ye lie as meek and mild (whereso laid) as Maud the child. 
Whose small grave was lately filled. 

Beating heart and burning brow, ye are very patient now, ^oll slo^vly. 

And the children might be hold to pluck the kingcups from your mould 
Ere a month had let them grow. 

And you let the goldfinch sing in the alder near in spring, Toll slo%vly. 

Let her buUd her nest and sit all the three weeks out on it, 
Murmuring not at anything. 

In your patience ye are strong ; cold and heat ye take not wrong : Toll slowly. 
When the trumpet of the angel blows eternity's evangel. 
Time will seem to you not long. 

Oh, the little birds sang cast, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. 

And I said in nnderbreath,— all our life is mixed with death. 
And who knoweth which is best ? 

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. 

And 1 smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, — 
Round our restlessness, His rest. 



THE LADY'S 'YES.' 

" Yes ! ' I answered you last night ; 

' No ! ' this morning. Sir, I say. 
Colors seen by candle-light 

Will not look the same by day. 

When the viols played their best, 
Lam|)S above, and laughs below- 

Lore ;«(? sounded like a jest, 
Fit for Yes or fit for No. 



Call me false or call me free — 
Vow. whatever lights may shine. 

No man on your face shall see 
Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both — 

Time to dance is not to woo — 

Wooing lu;ht makes fickle troth — 
Scorn of vie recoils on you : 

Learn to win a lady's faith 
Nobly, as the thing is high ; 



/.. E. L.'S LAST QUESTION. 



Bravely, as for life and death — 
With loyal gravity 

. Lead her from the festive boards. 
Point her to the starry skies, 
Guard her, by your truthful words 
Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true — 
Ever true, as wives of yore — 

And her Ves^ once said to you, 
Shall be Yes for evermore. 



L. E. L.'S LAST QUESTION. 

* Do you think of me as I think of you ' 



' Do you think of me as I think of you. 
My friends, my friends?' — She said it 

from the sea. 
The English minstrel in her minstrelsy ; 
While, under brighter skies than erst 

she knew, 
Her heart grew dark, — and groped 

there as the blind. 
To reach across the waves friends left 

behind — 
' Do you think of me as I think of you V 

It seemed not much to ask — As fof yau ? 
We all do ask the same. No eyelids 

cover 
Within the meekest eyes, that question 

over. 
And little in the world the Loving do 
But sit (among the rocks?) and listen 

for 
The echo of their own love es-ermore — 
' Do you think of me as I thmk of you ?' 

Love-ieamed, she had svmg of love and 
love, — 

And like a child that, sleeping with dropt 
head 

Upon the fairy-book he lately read. 

Whatever household noises round him 
move, 

Hears in his dream some elfin turbu- 
lence, — 



Even so, suggestive to her inward sense 
All soimds of life assumed one tune of 
love. 

And when the glory of her dream with- 
drew, 

When knightly guests and courtly pa- 
geantries 

Were broken in her visionary eyes 

By tears the solemn seas attested true, — 

Forgetting that sweet lute beside her 
hand. 

She asked not, — Do you praise me, O 
my land ? — 

But, — ' Think ye of me, friends, as I of 
you?' 

Hers was the hand that played for many 

a year 
Love's silver phrase for England, — 

smooth and well ! 
Would God, her heart's more inward 

oracle 
In that lone moment, might confirm her 

dear ! 
For when her questioned friends in 

agony 
Made passionate response — ' We think 

of tliee' 
Her place wns in the dust, too deep to 

hear. 

Could she not wait to catch their ans- 
wering breath ? 

Was she content — content — with ocean's 
soimd. 

Which dashed its mocking infinite 
around 

One thirsty for a little love? — beneath 

Those stars content, — where last her 
song had gone, — 

They mute and cold in radiant life,— as 
soon 

Their singer was to be, in darksome 
death ?* 

Bring your vain answers — cry, 'We 

think of thee .'' 
How think ye of her? warm in long 

ago 
Delights ? — or crowned with budding 

bays? Not so. 

* Her lyric on the polar star oime homo with 
iier latest papers. 



2S<S 



A CHILD ASLEEP. 



None smile and none are crowned 

where lieth she, 
With all her visions unfulfilled save 

one — 
Her childhood's — of the palm-trees in 

the Sim — 
And lo ! their shadow on her sepulchre ! 

' Do ye think of me as T think of you ?' — 

O friends,— O kindred,— O dear brother- 
hood 

Of all the world ! what are we, that we 
should 

For covenants of long affection sue ? 

Why press so near each other when the 
touch 

Is barred by graves? Not much, and 
yet too much. 

Is this • Think of me as I think of you.' 

But while on mortal lips I shape anew 

A sigh to mortal issues, — verily 

Above the unshaken stars that see us 

die, 
A vocal pathos rolls ! and He who drew 
All life from dust, and for all, tasted 

death. 
By death and life and love, appealing, 

saith, 
Do y oil thiiiJe of jue as I think of you ? 



THE POET AND THE BIRD. 



Said a people to a poet — ' Go out from 

among us straightway ! 
While we are thinkin;^ earthly things, 

thou sin^est of divine. 
There's a little fair brown nightingale, 

whn, sitting in the gateway. 
Makes fitter music to our ear, than an)' 

son.5 of thine !' 

The poet went out weeping — the night- 
ingale ceased chantmg ; 

' Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, 
is all thy sweetness done?' 

' I ca-inot sing my earthly things, the 
heavenly poet wanting. 

Who;e highest harmony includes the 
lowest under sun.' 



The poet went out weeping, — and died 

abroad, bereft there — 
The bird flew to his grave and died 

amid a thousand wails ! 
And, when I last came by the place, I 

swear the music left there 
Was only of the poet's song, and not 

the nightingale's ! 



A CHILD ASLEEP. 

How he sleepeth ! having drunken 
Weary childhood's mandragore. 
From his pretty eyes have sunken 
Pleasures to make room for more — - 
Sleeping near the withered nosegay 
which he pulled the day before. 

Nosegays ! leave them for the wak- 
ing. 
Throw them earthward wliere they 
grew : 
Dim are snch beside the breaking 
Amaranihs he looks unto — 
Folded eyes see brighter colors than the 
open ever do. 

Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows 
golden 
From the palms they sprang be- 
neath 
Now perhaps divinely holden. 

Swing against him in a wreath — 
We may think so from the quickening 
of his bloom and of his breath. 

Vision unto vision calleth. 

While the young child dreameth 
on : 
Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth 
With the glory thou hast won ! 
Darker wert thou in the garden, yester- 
morn by summer sun. 

We should see the spirits ringing 

Round thee. — were the clouds away 
'Tis the child-heart draws them, 
singing 



THE LITTLE FRIEND. 



257 



In the silent-seeming clay — 
Singing ! — Stars that seem the mutest, go 
in music all the way. 

As the moths around a taper, 
As the bees around a rose, 
As the gnats around a vapor. 
So tiie spirits group and close 
Round about a holy childhood, as if 
drinking its repose. 

Shapes of brightness overlean thee, 

With their diadems of youth 

On the ringlets which half screen thee 

While thou smilest, . . not in sooth 
Ty/j" smile, . . but theoverfair one, dropt 
from some ethereal mouth. 

Haply it is angel's duty. 

During slumber, shade by shade 
To fine down his childish beauty 
To the thing it must be made. 
Ere the world shall bring it praises, or 
the tomb shall see it fade. 

Softly, softly ! malce no noises I 

Now he lieth dead and dumb — 
Now he hears the angels' voices 
Folding silence in the room — 
Now he muse- deep the meaning of the 
Heaven-words as they come. 

Speak not ! he is consecrated — 

Breathe no breath across his eyes : 
Lifted up and separated 
On the hand of God he lies, 
In a sweetness beyond touching, — held 
in cloistral sanctities. 

Could ye bless him — father — mother ? 

Bless the dimple in his cheek ? 
Dare ye look at one another. 
And the benediction speak? 
Would ye not break out in weeping, 
and confess yourselves too weak ? 

He is harmless — ye are sinful. 

Ye are troubled, — he at ease : 
From his slumber, virtue winful 
Flowe'h outward with increase — 
Dare not bless him ! but be blessed by 
his peace — and go in peace. 



THE LITTLE FRIEND. 

— TO 6' »(6^ ef oi^OaAuoi' anriKr^Kv^tv. 
MARCtis Antoninl-s. 

WRITTEN IN THE BOOK WHICH SHE 
WADE AND SENT TO ME. 

The book thou givest, dear as such, 

Shall bear thy dearer name ; 
And many a word the leaves shall touch, 

For thee who form'dst the same! 
And on them, many a thought shall grow 

'Neath memory's rain and sun. 
Of thee, glad child, who dost not know 

That thought and pain are one 1 

Ves ! thoughts of thee who satest oft, 

A while since, nt my side- 
So wild to tame, — to move so soft, 

So very hard to chide : 
The childish vision at thine heart, 

The lesson on the knee ; 
The wandering looks which tt'ould de- 
part 

Like gulls across the sea ! 

The laughter, which no half-belief 

In wrath could all suppress ; 
The falling tears, which looked like 
grief. 

And were but gentleness ; 
The fancies sent, for bliss, abroad. 

As Eden's were not done — 
Mistaking still the cherub's sword 

For shining of the sun ! 

The sportive speech with wisdom in't^ 

The question strange and bold — 
The childish fingers in the print 

Of (jod's creati\e hold : 
The praying words in whispers said. 

The <in with sobs confest ; 
The leaning of the yorng meek head 

Upon the Saviour's breast I 

The gentle consciousness of praise 

With hues that went and came ; 
The brighter blush, a word could raific. 

Were that — a father's name! 
The shadow on thy rmile fo>- each 

Thnt on his face rould fa'l ! 
So quick hath love been, thee to teach, 

What soon it teacheth all. 



«58 



THE MOURNING MOTHER. 



Sit still as erst beside his feet I 

The future days are dim,— • 
But those will seem to thee most sweet, 

Which keeps thee nearest him I 
Sit at his feet in quiet mirth, 

And let him see arise 
A clearer sun and greener earth 

Withm thy loving eyes 1 — 

Ah loving eyes ! that used to lift 

Your childhood to my face — • 
That leave a memory on the gift 

I look on in your place — 
May bright-eyed hosts your guardians 
be 

From all but thankful tpars, — 
While, brightly as ye turned on me, 

Ye meet th' advancing years ! 



THE MOURNING MOTHER 
(of the dead blind.) 

Dost thou weep, mourning mother, 

For thy blind boy in the grave? 
That no more with each other 

Sweet counsel ye can have? — 
That /«c, left dark by nature. 

Can never more be led 
By thee, maternal creature. 

Along smooth paths instead ? 
That thou canst no more show him 

The sunshine, by the heat ; 
The river's silver flowing, 

By murmurs at his feet? 
The foliage, by its coolness ; 

The rosRs, by their smell ; 
And all creation's fulness. 

By Love's ui visible? 
Weepest thou to behold not 

His meek blind eyes again, — 
Closed doorways which were folded. 

And prayed against in vam — 
And under which, sat smiling 

Ihe child -mouth evermore, 
As one who watcheth, wiling 

The time by, at the door ? 
And weepest thou to feel not 

His clinging hand on thine — 
Which now, at dream time, will not 

Its cold touch disentwine? 
Arid Weepest thou still ofter 

Oh, nevermore to mark 



His low soft words, made softer 

By speaking ni the dark ? 
Weep on, thou mourning mother I 

But since. to him when living. 

Thou Wert both sun and moon, 
Look o'er his grave, surviving, 

From a high sphere alone I 
Sustam that exaltation — 

E.xpand that tender light ; 
And hold in mother passion 
ihy Blessed in thy sight. 
See how he went out straightway 

From the dark world he knew.^ 
No twilight in the gateway 

To mediate 'twixt the two, — 
Into the sudden glory. 

Out of the dark he trod, 
Departing from before thee 

At once to Light and Gool— 
For the first face, beholding 

I'he Christ's in its divine,'— 
For the first place, the golden 

And tideless hyaline : 
With trees, at lasting summer, 

That rock to songful sound. 
While angels, the new-comer. 

Wrap a still smile around. 
Oh, in the blessed psalm now. 

His happy voice he tries, 
Spreading a thicker palm-bough, 

I'han others, o'er his eyes. 
Yet still, in all the singing. 

Thinks haply of thy song 
Which, in his life's first springing. 

Sang to him all night long. 
And wishes it beside him, 

With kissing lips that cool 
And soft did overglide him, 
To make the sweetness full. 

Look up, O mourning mother ; 

Thy blind boy walks in light I 
Ye wait for one another, 

Before God's infinite ! 
But thou art now the darkest. 

Thou mother left below, — 
T/ioii, the sole blind, — thou markest, 

Content that it be so : — 
Until ye two have meeting 

Where Heaven's pearl-gate is. 
And he shall lead thy feet in 

As once thou leddest his. 
Wait on, thou mourning mother. 



CALLS OK THE HEART. 



asg 



CALLS ON THE HEART. 



Free Heart, that singest to-day, 
l^ike a bird on the first green spray ; 
Wilt thou go lorth to the world. 
Where the hawk hath his wings un- 
furled 
To follow, perhaps, thy way ? 
Where the tamer, thine own will bind, 
And, to make thee sing, will blind. 
While the little hip grows for the free 
behind ? 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ■ No. no ! 
Free hearts are better so.' 



The world, thou hast heard it told. 
Has counted its robber-gold. 
And the pieces stick to the hand. 
1 he world goes riding it fair and grand, 
While the truth is bought and sold ! 
World-voices east, world-voices west. 
They call thee, heart, from thine early 
rest, 
'Come hither, come hither and be our 
guest.' 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ' No, no ! 
Good hearts are calmer so.' 



Who calleth thee, Heart ? World's 

Strife, 
With a golden heft to his knife : 
World's JNIirth, with a finger fine 
That draws on a board in wine 
Her blood-red plans of life : 
World's Gain, with a brow knit down : 
World's Fame, with a laurel crown, 
Which -rustles most as the leaves turn 
brown — 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ■ No, no ! 
Calm hearts are wiser so.' 



Hast heard that Proserpina 

(Once fooling) was snatched away. 

To partake the dark king's seat, — 



And that the tears ran fast on hei 
feet 
To think how the sun shone yester- 
day ? 
With her ankles sunken in asphodel 
She w ept for the roses of earth, which 
fell 
From her lap when the wild car drave 
to hell. 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ' No, no ! 
Wise hearts are warmer so.' 



And what is this place not seen. 
Where hearts may hide serene ? 
' 'Tis a fair still house well-kept. 
Which humble thoughts have swept, 
And holy prayers made clean. 
There, I sit with Lnve in the sun. 
And we two never have done 
Singing sweeter songs than are guessed 
by one.' 

Heart, wilt thou go? 
— ' No, no ! 
Warm hearts are fuller so.' 



O Heart, O Love, — I fear 
That Love may be kept too near. 
Hast heard, O Heart, that tale. 
How Love may be false and frail 

To a heart once holden dear ? 
— ' But this true Love of mine 
Clings fast as the clinging vine. 
And mingles pure as the grapes in wine.' 
Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ' No, no ! 
Full hearts beat higher so.' 



O Heart, O Love, beware ! — 
Look up, and boast not there. 
For who has twirled at the pin ? 
'Tis the world, between Death and 
Sin, — 
The world, and the world's De- 
spair ! 
And Death has quickened his pace 
To the hearth, with a mocking face, 
Famihar as Love, in Love's own place — . 
Heart, wilt thou go ? 
'Still, no! 
High hearts must grieve even so.* 



HUMAS LIFE'S MISERY. 



The hou<;e is waste to-day, — 
The leaf has dropt from the spray. 
The thorn, prickt through to the 

song : 
If summer doeth no wrong 

The winter will, they say. 
Sing, Heart ! what heart replies ? 
In vain we were calm and wise. 
If the tears unkissed stand in our eyes. 
Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— • .-Vh, no ! 
Grieved hjart^ must break even so. 



Howbeit all is not lost : 
The warm noon ends in frost. 
The worldly tongues of promise. 
Like sheep-bells, die off from us 

On the desert hills clovid-crossed ! 
Yet, through the silence, shall 
Pierce the death-angel's call. 
And 'Come up hither,' recover all. 
Heart, wilt thou go? 
-' I go ! 
Broken hearts triumph so.* 



HUMAN LIFE'S MISERY. 



We sow the glebe, we reap the corn. 
We build the house where we may 
rest ; 
And then, at moments, suddenly. 
We look up to the great wide sky. 
Enquiring wherefore we were born . . . 
For earnest, or for jest ? 



The senses folding thick and dark 
About the stiflij soul within. 

We guess diviner things beyond. 

And vearn to them with yearning fond ; 

We strike out blindly to a mark 
Believed in, but not seen 



We vibrate to the pant and thrill 
Wherewith Eternity has curled 
In serpent-twine about God's seat ! 



While, freshening upward to his feet, 
In gradual growth His full-leaved will 
E.Kpands from world to world. 



And in the tumult and excess 

Of act and passion under sun. 
We sometimes hear — oh, soft and far. 
As silver star did touch with star. 
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness 
Through all things that are done. 



God keeps his holy mysteries 

Just on the outside of man's dream ! 
In diapason slow, we think 
To hear their pinions rise and sink. 
While they float pure beneath His eye, 
Like swans adown a stream. 



Abstractions, are they, from the forms 
Of His great beauty'? — exaltations 

From His great glory ''. — strong previ- 
sions 

Of what we shall be? — intuitions 

Of what we are — ia calms and storms. 
Beyond our peace and passions ? 



Things nameless! which, in passing so. 
Do stroke us with a subtle grace. 

We say, ' Who passes ? ' — they are 
dumb : 

We cannot see them go or come : 

Their touches fall .soft — cold — as snow 
Upon a blind man's face. 



Yet, touching so, they draw above 
Our common thoughts to Heaven's 
unknown — 

Our daily joy and pain, advance 

To a divine significance, — 

Our human love — O mortal love. 
That light is not its own 1 



And, sometimes, horror (hills oi'r blood 

To be so near such mystic Things : 
And we wrap round us, for defence. 



A DEAD J^OSE. 261 


Our purple manners, moods of sense — 


Yet my words that would praise thee 


As angels, from the face of God, 


are impotent things. 


Stand hidden in their wings. 


For none can e.vpress thee though r.l! 




should approve thee ! 


X. 


I love thee so. Dear, that I only can 


And, sometimes, through Life's heavy 


love thee. 


swound, 




We grope for them ! — with strangled 


II. 


breath 


Say, what can I do for thee 1 . . wenry 


We stretch our hands abroad and try 


thee . . grieve thee ? 


To reach them in our agony, — 


Lean on my shoulder . . . new bur- 


And widen, so, the broad life- wound. 


dens to add ? 


Which soon is large enough for death. 


Weep my tears over thee . . making 




thee .sad ? 




Oh, hold me not — love mfe not ? let me 
retrieve thee ! 






I love thee so. Dear, that I only can 


INCLUSIONS. 


leave thee. 


Oh, wilt thou have my hand. Dear, to 




lie along in thine ? 


A DEAD ROSE. 


As a little stone in a running stream, it 




seems to lie and pine ! 


I. 


Now drop the poor pale hand. Dear, . . 


FOSE ! who dares to name thee ? 


unfit to plight with thine. 


No loi ger roseate now, nor soft, nor 




sweet ; 


11. 


But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble- 


Oh, wilt thou have my cheek. Dear, 


wheat. — 


drawn closer to thine own ? 


Kept seven years in a drawer — thy 


My cheek is white, my cheek Is worn. 


titles shame thee. 


by many a tear run down. 




Now leave a little space. Dear, . . lest 


II. 


it should wet thine own. 


The breeze that used to blow thee 




Between the hedge-row thorns, and take 


III. 


away 


Oh, must tho'i have my snul. Dear 


An odour up the lane to last all day. — 


commingled with thy soul ? — 


If bre-xthlng now, — unsweetened 


Red grows the cheek, and warm the 


would forego thee. 


hand. . . the part is in the whole ! . . 




Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate. 


HI. 


when soul is joined to soul. 


The sun that used to smite thee. 




And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, 
lill beam appeared to bloom, and flower 






to burn, — 


INSUFFICIENCY. 


If shining now, — with not a hue would 




light thee. 


There is no one beside thee, and no 


IV. 


one above thee ; 


The dew that used to wet thee. 


Thou standest alone, as the nightin- 


And, white first, grow incarnadined be- 


gale sings I 


cause 



]yOMAN 'S SHOK TCOMI.VC^. 



It lay upon thee where the crimson was. 
If dropping now, — would darken 

where it met thee. 



The fly that lit upon thee, 
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet 
Along thy leaf's pure edges after heat, — 

If lighting now, — would coldly over- 
run thee. 



The bee that once did suck thee, 
And build thy perfumed ambers up his 

hive, 
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce 
alive, — 
If passing now, — would blindly over- 
look thee. 



The heart doth recognise thee. 
Alone, alone ! The heart doth smell 

thee sweet, 
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee 
most complete — 
Perceiving all those changes that dis- 
guise thee. 



Yes, and the heart doth owe thee 
More love, dead rose ! than to such 

roses bold 
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold ! — 
Lie still upon this heart — which breaks 
below thee. 



A WOMAN'S SHORTCOMINGS. 



She has laughed as softly as if she sighed! 

She has counted six and over, 
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well 
tried — • 
Oh, each a worthy lover ! 
'Ihey * give her time ;' for her soul must 
slip 
Where the world has set the grooving: 
She will lie to none with her fair r«d 
lip — 
But love seeks truer loving. 



She trembles her fan in a sweetness 
dumb. 
As her thoughts were beyond recal'.- 

With a glance for one, and a glance f t 
some. 
From her eyelids rising and falling. 
— Speaks common words with a blush- 
ful air ; 
— Hears bold words, unreproving : 
But her silence says — what she never 
will swear — 
And love seeks better loving. 



Go. lady ! lean to the night-guitar. 

And drop a smile to the bringer ; 
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far. 

At the voice of an in-door singer ! 
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes ; 

Glance lightly, on their removing ; 
And join new vows to old perjuries — 

But dare not call it loving ! 



Unless you can think, when the song is 
done, 
No other is soft in the rhythm ; 
Unless you can feel, when left by One, 

That all men else go with him ; 
Unless you can know, when upraised by 
his breath. 
That your beauty itself wants prov- 
ing ; 
Unless you can swear — ' For life, f )r 
death !' — 
Oh, fear to call it loving ! 



Unless yoti can muse in a crowd all day. 

On the absent face that fixed you ; 
Unless you can love, as the angels may, 
With the breadth of heaven betwi.xt 
you ; 
Unless you can dream that his faith i-. 
fast. 
Through behooving and unbehoov.ng; 
Unless you can die when tb.c dream i? 
pa.st — 
Oh, never call it loving 1 



A REED. 



>63 



A YEAR'S SPINNING. 



He listened at the porch. that day 
To hear the wheel go on. and on. 

And then it stopped — ran backaway — 
While through the door he brought 

the sun : 
But now my spinning is all done. 



He sate beside me, with an oath 

That love ne'er ended, once begun ; 

I smiled believing for us both, 
What was the truth for only one. 
And now my spmning is all done. 



My mother cursed me that I heard 
A yo-ing man's wooing as I spun. 

Thanks, cruel mother, for that word. 
For I have, since, a harder known ! 
And now my spinning is all done. 



I thought — O God !— my first-born's cry 
Both voices to my ear would drown : 

I listened in mine agony — 

It was the silence made me groan ! 
And now my spinning is all done. 



Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave. 
Who cursed me on her death-bed lone. 

And my dead baby's — (God it save !) 
Who, not to bless me, would not moan. 
And now my spinning is all done. 



A stone upon my heart and head. 
But no name written on the stone ! 

Sweet neighbours ! whisper low instead, 
' This sinner was a loving one — 
And now her spinning is all done,' 



And let the door ajar remain, 
In case he should pass by anon ; 

And leave the wheel out very plam. 
That HE, when passing in the suu. 
May see the spinning is all done. 



CHANGE UPON CHANGE. 



Five months .ago, the stream did flow. 
The lilies bloomed within the sedge ; 
And we were lingering to and fro,^ — 
Where none will track thee in this snow. 

Along the stream, beside the hedge. 
Ah, sweet, be free to love and go ! 
For if I do not hear thy foot. 
The frozen river is as mute. 
The flowers have dried down to the 
root ; 
And why, since these be changed since 
May, 
Shouldst thou change less than they? 



And slow, slow, as the winter snow. 
The tears have drifted to mine eyes ; 

And my poor cheeks, five months ago. 

Set blushing at thy praises so. 
Put paleness on for a disguise. 

Ah. sweet, be free to praise and go ! 
For if my face is turned to pale, 
It was thine oath that first did fail, — 
It was thy love proved false and frail ! 
And why, since these be changed 
enow. 
Should / change less than thou ? 



A REED. 



I AM no trumpet, but a reed : 

No flattering breath shall from me lead 

A silver sound, a hollow sound ! 
I will not ring, for priest or king, 
One blast that in re-echoing 

Would leave a bondsman faster bound. 



.64 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



1 am no trumpet, but a reed, — 
A broken reed, the wind indeed 

Lett Hat upon a dismal shore : 
Yet if a little maid, or child. 
Should sigh within it, earnest-mild. 

This reed will answer evermore. 



I am no trumpet, but a reed : 
Go, tell the fishers, as they spread 

Their nets along the river's edge, 
I will not tear their nets at all. 
Nor pierce tlieir hands it they should fall; 

'Ihen let them leave me m the sedge. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



(This Toem contains llie Impressions of the writer upon events in Tuscany of whlcli slie was 
« witnesd. " Fioni a wluilow," tile Clitic may (lemur. Slie bows to the olijeclion in tlie very 
title oi her work. No continuous narrative, nor exposition ol political pliiliwoplij, is attempted 
by lier. It is a simple stoiy ol personal impiessions, wliose only value is in llie intensity with 
which they were leceive.l, as pi-ovins her warm a fectioii ioi- a oeautiiul an 1 uniu.tunate coun- 
try; an.l the sincerity with wnich luey are reiaCeil, as iujicatin^ her own kooJ faith ami liee- 
doni Ironi all partizanship. 

Oi the two parts oi tuis Poem, the first was written nearly three years a;?o, while the second 
resumes the actual situation of l.ijl. Tiie discrepancy between the two parts is a sullicient 
guaiantee to tlie public oi tiie truthlulness of l.ie write.-, who, t.iou,i,':i s.ie certainly escaped the 
epidemic " lallius siciiuss ' of uiitiinsi is n for Pi.) Nono, tal;es siiame upon herself that sho 
believed, lilie a woman, sjine royal oaths, an! lost si.;iit of tlie probable cousequences oi somo 
obvious popular deeds. If the discrepancy sliould be painful to the reader, let him uililerstand 
that to toe writer it has been more so. lint such discrepancy we are called upon to accept at 
every hour b\ toe conditions ol our nature . . . tlie discrepancy between iispiiatiou and perlorm- 
ancv, between i nth and disillusion, between hope and fact. 

" Oh trusted, broken propliecy, 
Oh 1 idlest fortune sourly crost, 
Born loi tlie fulure, to the lutuie lost !" 
Nay, not lost to the future la this case. The future of Italy shall not be disinherited.— Flok- 

K.Vi;l!, ISJi.J 



PART I. 



I HEARD last nig lit a little child go sing- 
ing 
'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the 
church, 
" O bellu liberta, O hella .'" stringing 
The same words still on notes he went 
in search 
So high for, you concluded the up.spring- 

Of such a nimble bird to sky from 
perch 
Must leave the whole bush in a tremble 
green ; 



And that the heart of Italy must bent. 
While such a voice had leave to rise 
serene 
'Twixt church and palace of a Flor- 
ence street ! 
A little child, too. who not long had been 
By mother's finger steadied on his 
feet ; 
And .still O bella liberta he sang. 



II. 
Then I thought, musing, of the innu- 
merous 
Sweet songs which still for Italy out- 
rang 



CASA CUIDI WINDOWS. 



s6s 



From older singers' lips, who sang not 
thus 
Exiikinghy and purely, yet, with pang 
Sheathed into music, touched the heart 
of us 
So finely that the pity scarcely pained ! 
1 thought how Filicaja led on others, 

Bewailers for their Italy enchained. 
And how they called her childless 
among mothers. 
Widow of empires, ay, and scarce re- 
frained 
Cursing her beauty to her face as bro- 
thers 
Might a shamed sister's — ' Had she 
been less fair 
She were less wretched,' — how, evoking 
so 
From congregated wrong and heaped 
despair 
Of men and women writhing under 
blow. 
Harrowed and hideous in a filthy lair. 
Some personating Image, wherein woe 
Was wrapt in beauty from offending 
much, 
They called it Cybele, or Niobe, 

Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for 
such. 
Where all the world might drop for Italy 
Those cadenced tears which burn not 
where they touch, — 
'Juliet of nations, canst thou die as we ? 
And was the violet crown that crowned 
thy head 
So over large, though new buds made it 
rough. 
It slipped down and across thine eye- 
lids de d, 
O sweet, fair Juliet V Of such songs 
enough ; 
Too many of such complaints I Be- 
hold, instead, 
Void at Verona, Juliet's marble trough !* 

As v»id as that is. are all images 
Men set between themselves and actual 
wrong. 
To catch the weight of pity, meet the 
stress 
Of conscience ; — since 'tis easier to gaze 
long 



• They bIiow at Veronn an empty trough of 
(toue as tUu tomti of Juliet. 



On mournful maslcs, and sad effigies. 
Than on real, live, weak creatures 
crushed by strong. 



For me who stand in Italy to-day 
Where worthier poets stood and sang 
before, 
I kiss their footsteps, yet their words 
gainsay. 
I can but muse in hope upon this shore 

Of golden Arno as it shoots away 
Through Florence's heart beneath her 
bridges four ! 
Bent bridges, seeming to strain off 
like bows. 
And tremble while the arrowy under- 
tide 
Shoots on and cleaves the marble as 
it goes, 
And strikes vip palace-walls en either 
side, 
And froths the cornice out in glitter- 
ing rows. 
With doors and windows quaintly mul- 
tiplied. 
And terrace-sweeps, and gazers upon 
all. 
By whom if flower or kerchief were 
thrown out 
From any lattice there, the same 
would fall 
Into the river underneath no doubt. 
It runs so close and fast 'twixt wall 
and wall. 
How beautiful ! The mountains from 
without 
In silence listen for the word said 
next. 
What word will men say, — here where 
Giotto planted 
His campanile, like an unperplexed 
Fine question Heaven-ward touching 
the things granted 
A noble people who, being greatly 
vexed 
In act, in aspiration keep undaunted ! 
What word will God say ? Michel's 
Night and Day 
And Dawn and Twilight wait in the 
marble scorn,* 

• These famous statues leclillf in tlie Sngres- 
tia Nuova, on the tombs ol Giuliaim de' Me- 
dici, third auu of Lorenzo the MaguiUceut, uud 



s66 



CA.SA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Like dogs upon a dunghill, couched 

on clay 

From whence the Medicean stamp's 

outworn. 

The final putting off of all sueh sway 

By all such hands, and freeing of the 

unborn 
In Florence and the great world outside 

Florence 
Three hundred years his patient statues 

wait 
In that small chapel of the dim St. Law- 
rence I 
Day's eyes are breaking bold and pas- 
sionate 
Over his shoulder, and will flash ab- 
horrence 
On darkness and with level looks meet 
fate. 
When once loose from that marble 
film of theirs ; 
The Night has wild dreams in her sleep ; 
the D.iwn 
Is haggard as the sleepless. Twilight 
wears 
A sort of horror ; as the veil withdrawn 
'1 wixt the artist's soul and works had 
left them heirs 
Of speechless thoughts which would not 
quail nor fawn. 
Of angers and contempts, of hope and 
love ; 
For not without a meaning did he 
place 
Princely Urbino on the seat above 
With everlasting shadow on his face ; 
While the slow dawns and twilights 
disapprove 
The ashes of his long-extinguished race, 
Wh.ch never more shall clog the feet 
of men. 



I do believe, divinest Angelo, 

1 hat winter-hour Via Larga. when. 
They bade thee build a statue up in 
snow,* 

Li>ieii7.o ot Urbino, liis Bianilson. Strozzi"s 
eiiiunini on lh« Nisht, with Michael Angelo's 
rt'jointii'i', iK well known. 

• Tills nioi'liliiK taslc was set by Pietro, the 
unworthy sucix-saor of Lorenzo the Matniti- 
cent. 



And straight that marvel of thine art 
again 
Dissolved beneath the sun's Italian 
glow. 
Thine eyes, dilated with the plastic 
passion. 
Thawing too, in drops of wounded man- 
hood, .since. 
To mock alike thine art and indigna- 
tion. 
Laughed at the palace-window the new 
prince, — 
(' Aha ! this genius needs for e.\alta- 
tion, 
When all's said, and howe'er the proud 

may wince, 
A little marble from our princely 
mines I ') 
I do believe that hour thou laughedst 
too, 
For the whole sad world and for thy 

Florentines 
After these few tears — which were only 
few! 
That a'', beneath the sun, the grand 
white lines 
Of thy snow statue trembled and with- 
drew, — 
Thy head, erect as Jove's, being 
palsied first. 
The eyelids flattened, the full brow 
turned blank, — 
The right hand, raised but now as if 
it cursed, 
Dropt, a mere snowball, (till the people 
sank 
Their voices, though a louder laugh- 
ter burst 
From the royal window.) thou coiildst 
proudly thank 
God and the prince for promise and 
presage. 
And laugh the laugh back, I think 
verily. 
Thine eyes being purged by tears of 
righteous rage 
To read a wrong into a prophecy. 
And measure a true great man's heri- 
tage 
Against a mere great duke's posterity. 
1 think thy soul said then, ' I do not 
need 
A princedom and its quarries after all ; 



CASA GUIDl WIN DOW. 



«6j 



For if I write, pnint, carve a word, 
indeed, 
On book or board or dust, on floor or 
wall, 
The same is kept of Cod who taketh 
heed 
That not a letter of the meaning fall. 
Or ere it touch and teach His World's 

deep heart 
Outlasting, therefore, all vour lordships, 
Sir 1 
So keep your slone, beseech you, for 
your part. 
To cover up your grave- place and refer 
The proper titles 1 /live by my art 1 
The thought I threw into this snow shall 
stir 
This gazing people when their gaze 
is done ; 
And the tradition of your act and mine, 
When all the snow is melted in the 
sun, 
.Shall gather up, for unborn men, a sign 
Of what is the true princedom I ay, 
and none 
Shall laugh that day, except the drunk 
with wine.' 



Amen, great Angelo I the day's at 
hand. 
If many laugh not on it, shall we weep ? 
Much more we must not, let us under- 
stand. 
Through rhymers sonneteering in their 
.sleep. 
And arch.iists mumbling dry bones up 
the land, 
And sketchers lauding ruined towns 
a-heap, — 
Through all that drowsy hum of 
voices smooth. 
The hopeful oird mounts carolling from 
brake ; 
The hopeful child, with leaps to catch 
his growth, 
Sings open-eyed for liberty's sweet 
sake ; 
And I, a singer also, from my youth. 
Prefer to sing with these who are awake. 
With birds, with babes, with men who 
will not fear 
The baptism of the holy mountain dew. 



(And many of such wakers now arc 
here. 
Complete in their anointed manhood, 
who 
Will greatly dare and greatlicr per- 
severe,) 
Than join those old thin voices with ir. y 
new. 
And sigh for Italy with some safe 
sigh 
Cooped up in music 'twixt an oh and ah ! 
Nay, hand in hand with that young 
child, will I 
Go singing rather ' Bella liberta' 
Than, with those poets, croon the 
dead or cry 
' Se tu men bellafossit Italia .'' 



' Less Wretched if less fair.' Perhaps 
a truth 
Is so far plain in thi.s— that Italy, 

Long trammelled with the purple o{ 
her youth 
Against tier age's ripe activity. 

Sits still upon her tombs, without 
death's ruth. 
But also without life's brave energy. 

■ Now tell us what is Italy ?' men ask. . 
And others answer, ' Virgil, Cicero, 
Catullus, CsEsar. What beside ? to 
task 
The memory closer — 'Why, Poccaccin, 
Dante, Petrarca,'— and if still the flark 
Appears to yield its wine by drops tco 
slow, — 
Angelo, Raffael, Pergolese,' — all 
Whose strong hearts beat through stone, 
or charged again 
The paints with fire of souls electrical, 
Or broke up heaven for music. What 
more then ? 
Why, then, no more. The clia|_let's 
last bead-i fall 
In naming the last saintship within ken, 
And, after that, none prayeth in the 
land. 
Alas, this Italy has too long swept 

Hemic ashes up for hour-glass sand : 
Of her own past, impassioned nynipho- 
lept ! 
Consenting to be nailed here by the 
hand 



a68 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



To the very bay-tree under which she 
stepped 
A q^ieeii of old, and plucked a leafy 
branch. 
And, licensing the world too long in- 
deed 
To iise her broad phylacteries to 
staunch 
And stop her bloody lips, she takes no 
lieed 
How one clear word would draw an 
avalanche 
Of living hons around her, to succeed 
'Ihe vanished generations Can she 
count 
The oil-eaters, with large, live, mobile 
mouths 
Agape for maccaroni, in the amount 
Of consecrated heroes of her soutn's 
Bright rosary t The pitcher at the 
fount. 
The gift of gods, being broken, she 
much loathes 
To let the ground-leaves of the place 
confer 
A natural bowl. So henceforth .she 
would seem 
No nation, but the poet's pensioner, 
With alms from every land of song and 
dream ; 
While aye her pipers sadly pipe of 
her. 
Until their proper breaths, in that e.v- 
tremc 
Of sighing, split the reed on which 
they played 1 
Of which, no more: but never say 'no 
more ' 
To Italy's life 1 ller memories un- 
dismayed 
Still argue ' evermore ' — her graves i.-n- 
plorc 
Her futnre to be strong and not afraid ; 
Her very statues send their looks belorc! 



We do not serve the dead — the past 
is past I 
God lives, and lifts his glorious niurn- 
liigs up 
]5efore the eyes of men, awake at last, 
Who put away the meats they used lo 
iup, 



And down upon the dust of earth out- 
cast 
The dregs remaining of the ancient cup, 
Then turn to wakeful prayer and 
wor'hy act. 
The dead, upon their awful 'vantage 
ground, 
The sun not in their faces, — shall ab- 
stract 
No more our strength : we will not be 
discrowned 
As guardians of their crowns ; nor 
deign transact 
A barter of the present, for a sound 
Of good, so counted in the ioregone 
days. 
O Dead, ye sh.all no longer cling to us 

With rigid hands of desiccating praise. 
And drag us backward by the garment 
thus. 
To stand and laud you in long- 
drawn virelays ! 
We will not henceforth he oblivious 
Of our own lives, because ye lived 
before. 
Nor of our acts, because ye acted well. 
We thank you that ye first unlatched 
the door — 
But will not make it inaccessible 

By thankings on the threshold any 
more. 
We hurry onward to extinguish hell 
With our fresh souls, our younger 
hope, and (iod's 
Maturity of purpose. Soon shall we 

D;e also ! and, that then our periods 
Of life may round themselves lo mem- 
ory, 
As smoothly as on our graves the 
burial-sods, 
We now must look to it to excel as ye. 

And hear our age as far, iinliniued 
By the last mind-mark I so, to be in- 
voked 
By future generations, as their Dead.| 



' ris true that when the dust of death 

has choked 
A great man's voice, the common 

words he said 
Turn oracles, — the conimoii thoughts he 

yoked 



CASA GUIDl WrNDOlVS. 



2fig 



Like horses, draw like griffins 1 — this 
is true 
And c;ceptable. I, too, should desire, 
When men make record with the 
floweVs they strew, 
Savonarola's soul went out in fire 

Upon our Grand-duke's piazza, and 
burned through 
A. moment first, or ere he did expire, 
The veil betwixt the right and wrong, 
and showed 
How near God sate and judged the 
judges there,' — * 
Upon the self-same pavement over- 
strewed. 
To cast my violets with as reverent 
care. 
And prove that all the winters which 
have snowed 
Cannot snow out the scent from stones 
and air. 
Of a sincere man's virtues. This was 
he, 
Savonarola, who, while Peter sank 

With his whole boat-load, called cour- 
ageously ■ 
' Wake Christ, wake Christ !' — who, hav- 
ing tried the tank 
Of old church-waters used for bap- 
tistry 
Ere Luther came to spill them, swore 
they stank ! 
Who also by a princely death-bed 
cried 
' Loose Florence, or God will not loose 
thy soul !' 
Then fell back the Magnificent and 
died 
Beneath the star-look, shooting from the 
cowl. 
Which turned to wormwood bitter- 
ness the wide 
Deep sea of his ambitions. Tt were foul 

To grudge Savonarola and the rest 
Their violets 1 rather pay them quick 
and fresh ! 
The emphasis of death makes mani- 
fest 



• Siiv.in uiila w.is hii lit III 111 I tvnlniii Id ■ liM 
testfni'ili.v a'^iihl^r Pfvpril <'(irriipti(ill'* Uf* eiii'ly 
as MiiCh. H9S : anrl. aa late an nur nwii lUv. It 
is a ciistoni in Florence to strew vliilet* on 
the pavcin'.'nt where he a'i*fere'l, in giatel'ul 
rtiCOii'llitioii of the itnntvcrtiarv. 



The eloquence of action in our flesh ; 
And men who, living, were but dimly 
guessed. 
When once free from life's entangled 
mesh. 
Show their full length in graves, or 
oft indeed 
Exaggerate their stature, in the flat. 

To noblo admirations which exceed 
Most nobly, yet will calculate in that 
i!ut accurately. We, who are the 
seed 
Of buried creatures, if we turned and 
spat 
Upon our antecedents, we were vile. 
Bring violets rather. If these had not 
walked 
Their furlong, could we hope to walk 
our mile '! 
Therefore bring violets I Yet if we, 
self-baulked. 
Stand still a-strewing violets all the 
while. 
These moved in vain, of whom we have 
vainly talked. 
So rise up henceforth with a cheerful 
smile. 
And having strewn the violets, reap the 
corn. 
And, having reaped and garnered, 
bring the plough 
And draw new furrows 'ncath the 
healthy morn, 
And plant the great Hereafter in this 
Now. 



Of old 'twas so. How step by step was 
worn 
As each man gained on each, se- 
curely ! — how 
Each by his own strength sought his 
own ideal. 
The ultimate Perfection leaning bright 
From out the sun and stars, to ble.ss the 
leal 
And earnest search of all for Fair and 
Right, 
Through doubtful forms, by earth 
accounted real ! 
Because old Jubal blew into delight 
The souls of men, with clear-piped mel- 
odies. 



'70 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



If youthful Asaph were content at 
most 
To draw from Jubal's grave) with hsten- 
iiig eyes, 
Traditionary music's floating ghost 
Into the grass-grown silence ? were it 
wise ? 
And was't not wiser, Jubal's breath 
being lost. 
That Miriam clashed her cymbals to 
surprise 
The sun between her white arms flung 
apart 
With new, glad, golden sounds ? that 
David's strings 
O'erflowed his hand with music from 
his heart ? 
So harmony grows full from many 
springs, 
And liappy accident turns holy art. 



You enter, in your Florence wanderings, 
The church of St. Maria Novella. 
Pass 
The left stair, where at plague-time 
Macchiavel'* 
Saw one with set fair face as in a 
glass. 
Dressed out against the fear of death and 
hell. 
Rustling her silks in pauses of the 
mass. 
To keep the thought off how her hus- 
band fell, 
When she left home, stark dead 
across her feet — 
The stair leads up to what the Orgagnas 
.save 
Of Dante's djemons ; you, in passing 
it, 
Ascend the right stair from the farther 
nave, 
To muse in a small chapel scarcely 
lit 
By Cimabue's Virgin. Bright and 
brave. 
That picture was accounted, mark, of 
old! 
A king stood bare before its sovran 
grace ;t 

" See Ilia dcscriiiticr.k ol Cie plii^-in; in F!or. 
cure. 

\ Cliuvlta of AlijoUj wlH>rii, iu tils itaBsajjo 



A reverent people shouted to behold 
The picture, nut tiie king ; and even the 

Containing such a miracle, grew bold, 
Named the Glad Borgo from that beau- 
teous lace, 
Which thrilled the artist, after work, 
to thuik 
His own ideal Mary-smile should stand 
So very near him ! — he, within the 
brink 
Of all that glory, let in by his hand 
With too divine a rashness I Yet 
none shrink 
Who come to gaze here now — albeit 
'twas planned 
Sublimely in the thought's simplicity. 
The Lady, throned in empyreal state. 
Minds only the young babe upon her 
knee ; 
While sidelong angels bear the royal 
weight. 
Prostrated meekly, smiling tenderly 
Oblivion of their wings! the Child 
thereat 
Stretches its hand like Cod. If any 
should. 
Because of some stiff draperies and 
loose joints. 
Gaze scorn down from the heights of 
Raffaelhood, 
On Cimabue's picture, — Heaven anoints 
The head of no such critic, and his 
blood 
The poet's curse strikes full on, and ap- 
points 
To ague and cold spasms for ever- 
more. 
A noble picture ! worthy of the shout 
Wherewith along the streets the peo- 
ple bore 
Its cherub faces, which the sun threw 
out 
Until they stooped and entered the 
church door I — 
Yet rightly was young Giotto talked 
about. 



: itllo 



•d tu 



throu^li Florence, Cinuilii 
pictnre while yet in his ' HutteKB.' Tlie pupii- 
inoe followeil the lo.viil vlsllor, Hnil in tliv nni- 
veisal delight Hnd lulmii'iitiou, the qimilir nf 
the cit.v in which the nrtidt llveil wan culled 
" KorKO AlleRil." The picture wilB can led iu 
a triumph to the d^uich and deposited thcit. 



CASA QUID I WINDOWS. 



271 



Whom Cimabue found among the 
sheep,* 
And knew, as gods know gods, and car- 
ried liome 
To paint the things he had painted, 
with a deep 
And fuller insight, and so overcome 
His chapel-lady with a heavenlier 
sweep 
. Of light. For thu^wc mount into the 
sum 
Of great things known or acted. I 
hold, too, 
That Cimabue smiled upon the' lad, 
At the first stroke which passed what 
he could do, — 
Or else his Virgin's smile had never had 
Such sweetness in't. All great men 
who foreknew 
Their heirs in art, for art's sake have 
been glad, 
And bent their old white heads as if 
uncrowned, 
Fanatics of their pure ideals still 

Far more than of their triumphs, 
which were found 
With some less vehement struggle of 
the will. 
If old jVIargherltone trembled, swoon- 
ed. 
And died despairing at the open sill 
Of other men's achievements, (who 
achieved, 
By loving art beyond the master !) he 

Was old Margheritone and conceived 
Never, at first youth and most ecstasy, 
A Virgin like that dream of one, 
which heaved 
The death-sigh from his heart. If wist- 
fully 
Margheritone sickened at the smell 
Of Cimabue's laurel, let him go ! — 
For Cimabue stood up very well 
In spite of Giotto's — and Angelico, 

The artist-saint, kept smiling m liis 
cell 
The smile with which he welcomed the 
sweet slow 



• How Cim:ibuf! ronnl Giolto.llio shcp'.icrtl- 
boj*, Fketchin,^ a riiiil of his tlock upnn a Ptoin;, 
is a p etty Rtory tolil by VaBari.^who also ru- 
l.tte* how the elder artiRt Mar;^heritono die-l 
*■ i-.ifaBtldito " of the eucceasoa of the new 
vrliool. 



Inbreak of angels, (whitening through 
the dim 
That he might paint them !) wliilc t!ic 
sudden sense 
Of Raffael's future was revealed to 
him 
By force of his own fair works' compe- 
tence. 
The same blue waters where the dol- 
phins swim 
Suggest the Tritons. Through the blue 
Immense 
Strike out all .swimmers I cling not in 
the way 
Of one another, so to sink ; but learn 
The strong man's impulse, catch the 
fresh'ning spray 
He throws up in his motions, and discern 
By his clear, westering eye, the time 
of day. 
Thou, God, hast set us worthy gifts to 
earn. 
Besides thy heaven and Thee ! and 
when I say 
There's room here for the weakest man 
alive 
To live and die, — there's room too, I 
repeat. 
For all the strongest to live well and 
strive, 
Their own way, by their individual 
heat, — 
Like a new bee-swarm leaving the old 
hive. 
Despite the wa.x which tempts so vio- 
let-swcct. 
Then let the living live, the dead retain 
Their grave-cold flowers! — though 
honour's best supplied. 
By bringing actions, to prove theirs not 
vain. 



Cold graves, we .say ? it shall be testi- 
fied 
That living men who burn in heart .ind 
brain, 
Without the dead, were colder. If 
we tried 
To sink the past beneath our feet, bo 
sure 
The future would not stand. Precipi- 
tate 



272 



CASA GUIDI WINDOIVS. 



This old roof from the shrine — and, in- 
secure. 
The nesthng swallows fly off, mate 
trom mate. 
How scant the gardens, if the graves 
were fewer ! 
The tall green poplars grew no longer 
straight, 
Whose tops not looked to Troy. Would 
any fight 
For Athens, and not swear by Mara- 
thon ? 
Who dared build temples, without tombs 
in sight? 
Or live, without .some dead man's 
benison '? 
Or seek truth, hope for good, and strive 
for right. 
If, looking up, he saw not in the sun 
Some angel of the martyrs all day long 
Standing and waiting? your last 
rhythm will need 
Your earliest key-note. Could I sing 
this song. 
If my dead masters had not taken 
heed 
To help the heavens and earth to make 
me strong. 
As the wind ever will find out some 
reed. 
And touch :t to .such issues as belong 
To such a frail thing ! None may 
grudge the dead 
Libations from full cups. Unless we 
choose 
To look back to the hills behind us 
spread. 
The plains before us sadden and con- 
fuse ; 
If orphaned, we are disinherited. 

XII. 

1 would but turn these lachrymals to use. 
And pour fresh oil in from the olive 
grove. 
To fiirni.>>h them as new lamps. Shall I 
say 
sVhat made my heart beat witli exult- 
ing love, 
A few weeks back ? 

XIII. 

.... The day was such a d.ny 
As Florence owes the sun. The sky 
above. 



Its weight upon the mountains seemed 
to lay. 
And palpitate in glory, like a dcve 
'Who has flown too fast, full-hearted ! — 
take away 
The image ! for the heart of man beat 
higher 
That day in Florence, flooding all her 

streets 
And piazzas with a tumult and desire. 
The people, with aceumulated heats. 
And faces turned one way, as if one 
fire 
Both drew and flushed them, left their 
ancient beats 
And went up toward the palace-Pitti 
wall. 
To thank their Grand-duke, who, not 
quite of course 
Had graciously permitted, at their call. 
The citizens to use their civic force 
To guard their civic homes. So one 
and all. 
The Tuscan cities streamed up to the 
source 
Of this new good at Florence ; taking 
it 
As good so far, presageful of more 
good. — 
The first torch of Italian freedom, lit 
To toss in the ne.Kt tiger's face who 
should 
Approach too near them in a greedy 
fit,— 
The first pulse of an even flow of blood. 

To prove the level of Italian veins 
Toward rights perceived and granted. 
How we gazed 
From Casa Guidi windows, while, in 
trains 
Of orderly procession — banners raised. 
And intermittent bursts i f martial 
.strains 
Which died upon the .shouts, as if 
amazed 
Ey gladness beyond mr-sic — they 
pa.<i;ed on I 
The magistracy, with insignia, passed ; 

And all the people shouted in the si n. 
And all the thousand windows which 
had ca«t 
A ripple of silks, in blue and scarlet, 
down. 
As if the houses overflowed at last. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



27s 



Seemed growing larger with fair 
heads and eyes. 
The lawyers passed ; and still arose the 
shout, 
And hands broke from the windows to 
surprise 
Those grave calm brows with bay -leaves 
thrown out. 
The priesthood passed : the friars, 
witfi-tt'orldly-wise 
Keen sidelong glances from their beards 
about 
The street to see who shouted 1 many 
a monk 
Who takes a long rope in the waist, was 
there I 
Whereat the popular exultation drunk 
With indrawn ' vivas,' the whole sunny 
air, 
While through the murmuring win- 
dows rose and sunk 
A cloud of kerchiefed hands I ' The 
church makes fair 
Her welcome in the new Pope's name.' 
Ensued 
The blac'i sign of the ' martyrs I ' name 
no name. 
But count the graves in silence. Next 
were viewed 
The artists ; next the trades j and after 
came 
The people, — flag and sign, and rights 
as good, — 
And very loud the shout was for that 
same 
Motto, 'Ilpopolo,' II Popolo,— 
The word means dukedom, empire, 
majesty. 
And kings in such an hour might read 
it so. 
And next, with banners, each in his 
degree, 
Deputed representatives a-row 
Of every separate state of Tuscany ; 

Siena's she-wolf, bristling on the fold 
Of the first flag preceded Pisa's hare ; 
And Massa's lion floated calm in 
sold, 
Pienza's following with his silver stare ; 
Arezzo's steed pranced clear from 
bridle-hold, — 
And well might shout our Florence, 
greeting there 



These, and more brethren I Last, 
the world had sent 
The various children of her teeming 
flanks- 
Greeks, English, French — as if to a 
parliament 
Of lovers of her Italy in ranks. 

Each bearing its land's symbols rever- 
ent ; 
At which the stones seemed breaking 
into thanks 
And rattling up the sky, such sounds 
in proof 
Arose ! the very house-walls seemed to 
bend. 
The very windows, up from door to 
roof, 
Flashed out a rapture of bright heads, to 
mend 
With passionate looks, the gesture's 
whirling off 
A hurricane of leaves 1 Three hours 
did end 
While all these passed ; and ever in 
the crowd, 
Rude men, unconscious of the tears that 
kept 
Their beards moist, shouted ; some 
few laughed aloud. 
And none asked any why they laughed 
and wept : 
Friends kissed each other's cheeks, . 
and foes long vowed 
Did it more warmly: two- months' 
babies leapt 
Right upward in their mothers' arms, 
whose black 
Wide, glittering eyes looked elsewhere ; 
lovers pressed 
Each before either, neither glancing 
back ; 
And peasant maidens, smoothly 'tired 

and tressed, 
' Forgot to finger on their throats the 

slack 
Great pearl-strings ; while old blind men 
would not rest. 
But pattered with their staves and slid 
their shoes 
Along the stones, and smiled as if they 
saw. 
O Heaven ! I think that day had 
noble use 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Among God's days. So near stood. 
Right and Law, 
BjtU umtually forborne I Law would 
not bruise, 
Nor Right deny : and each in reverent 
awe 
Honoured the other. What if, ne'er- 
theless. 
That good day's sun delivered to the 
vines 
No charta, and the liberal Duke's 
excess 
Did scarce exceed a Guelf's or Ghibel- 
line's 
In any special actual righteousness 
Of what that day he granted ;* still the 
signs 
Are good, and full of promise, we 
raa-.t say. 
When multitudes approach their kings 
with prayers 
And kings Concede their people's 
right to pray. 
Both in one sunshine ! Griefs are not 
despairs. 
So uttered ; nor can royal claims dis- 
may 
Whan men from humble homes and 
ducal chairs. 
Hate wrong together. It was well to 
view 
Thoia banners ruffled in a ruler's i:ice. 
Inscribed, ' Live freedom, union, and 
all true 
Brave patriots who are aided by God's 
grace 1' 
Nor was it ill, when Leopoldo drew 
Hi- little children to the window-place 

He stood in at the Pitti, to suggest 
Tii'jy too should govern as the people 
willed. 
What a cry ro.se then ! some, who 
saw tlie best, « 

Declared his eyes filled up and over- 
filled 
With good warm human tears which 
unrepres^ed 
Ran down I like his face : the fore- 
head's build 

* Siii^y waen tlie conatitiitioniil concessions 
havii \m\\ complete in Tuscany, as all the 
woi'lil knows. Tne event breaks in upon the 
rae litation, and is loo last lor prophecy in 
then;; itiauge times.— B, B. B. 



Has no capacious genius, yet perhaps 
Sufficient comprehension, — mild and sad. 
And careful nobly, — not with care 
that wraps 
Self-loving hearts, to stifle and make 
mad. 
But careful with the care that shuns a 
lapse 
Of faith and duty, — studious not to add 

A burden in the gathering of a gain. 
And so, God save the Duke, I say with 
those 
Who that day shouted it, and while 
dukes reign, 
May all wear in the visible overflows 

Of spirit, such a look of careful pain ! 
For God must love it better than repose. 



And all the people who went up to let 
Their hearts out to that Duke, as has 
been told — 
Where guess ye that the living people 
met. 
Kept tryst, formed ranks, chose lead- 
ers, first unrolled 
Their banners ? 

In the Loggia ? where is set 
Cellini's godlike Perseus, bronze — or 
gold— 
(How name the metal, when the statue 
flings 
Its soul so in your eyes ?) with brow 
and sword 
Superbly calm, as all opposing things 
Slain with the Gorgon, were no more 
abhorred 
Since ended ? 

No ! the people sought no wings 
From Perseus m the Loggia, nor im- 
plored 
An inspiration in the place beside. 
From that dim bust of Brutus, jagged 
and grand. 
Where Buonarotti passionately tried 
From out the close-clenched marble 
to demand 
The head of Rome's sublimest homi- 
cide. 
Then dropt the quivering mallet from 
his hand. 
Despairing he could find no model stulT 



CASA GUIDl WINDOIVS. 



Of Brutus in all Florence, where he 
found 
The go.is and gladiators thick enough. 
Not there ? the people chose still 
holier ground ! 
The people, who are simple, blind, and 
rough, 
KnoA" their own angels, after looking 
round. 
What chose they then ? where met 
they? 

XV. 

On the stone 
Call'd Dante's, — a plain flat stone, 
scarce discerned 
From others in the pavement, — where- 
upon 
He used to bring his quiet chair out, 
turned 
To Brunelleschi's church and pour alone 
The lava of his spirit when it 
burned — 
It is not cold to-day. O passionate 
Poor Dante, who, a banished Floren- 
tine, 
Didst sit austere at banquets of the great. 
And muse upon this far-off stone of 
thine, 
And think how oft some passer used to 
wait 
A moment, in the golden day's de- 
cline. 
With ' good night, dearest Dante ! ' — • 
well, good-night ! 
I muse now, Dante, and think, verily. 
Though chapelleJ in the byeway, out of 
sight, 
Ravenna's bones would thrill with 
ecstasy , 
Could'st know thy favorite stone's 
elected ri?ht 
As try-st-place for thy Tuscans to fore- 
see 
Th^ir earliest chartasfrom. Goodnight, 
good morn. 
Henceforward, Dante ! now my soul 
is sure 
That thine is better comforted of scorn. 
And looks down earthward in com- 
pleter cure. 
Than when, in Santa Croce church for- 
lorn 



Of any corpse, the architect and 
hewer 
Did pile the empty marbles as thy 
tomb ! * 
For now thou art no longer e.xiled, 
now 
Best honored ! — we salute thee who art 

come 
• Back to the old stone with a softer 
brow 
_Than Giotto drew upon the wall, for 
some 
Good lovers of our age to track and 
plough 
Their way to, through Time's ordures 
stratified,! 
And startle broad awake into the 
dull 
Bargello chamber. Now, thou'rt milder 
eyed. 
Now, Beatrix may leap up glad to 
cull 
Thy first smile, even in heaven and at 
her side, 
Like that which, nine years old, look- 
ed beautiful 
At May-game. What do I say? I 
only meant 
That tender Dante loved Iiis Florence 
well. 
While Florence, now, to love him is 
content ; 
And, mark ye, that the piercingest 
sweet smell 
Of love's dear incen.se by the living sent 

To find the dead, is not acce sible 
To lazy livers ! no narcotic, — not 

Swung in a censer to a sleepy tune, — 

But trod out in the mornintc ai"", by hot 

Quick spirits, who tread firm to ends 

foreshown , 

And use the name of greatness unforgot. 

To meditate what greatness may be 

done. 



* The Florentines, tn whom the Ravenneae 
denied the boiv o.^ Dante which was aslied of 
tiiem ill a " late remorse ol love." have j^iveii 
a eenohiph to their divine i)oet in tills church. 
Sometliini less than a Ki'ave ! 

t Tn allusion to Mr. Kirknp's well-known 
discovery of Giotto's fresco-portrait of Daitte, 



aji 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



For Dante sits in heaven, and ye stand 
here, 
And more remains for doing, all must 
feel. 
Than trysting on his stone from year to 
year 
To shift processions, civic toe to heel. 
The town's thanks to the Pitti. Are ye 
freer 
For what was felt that day? A cha- 
riot wheel 
May spin fast, yet the chariot never 
roll. 
But if that day suggested something 
good, 
And bettered, with one purpose, soul by 
soul, — 
Better means freer. A land's brother- 
hood 
Is most puissant ! Men, upon the whole. 
Are what they can be, — nations what 
they would. 



'Will, therefore, to be strong, thou Italy ! 
Will to be noble ! Austrian Metter- 
nich 
Can fix no yoke imlcss the neck agree ; 
And thine is like the lion's when the 
thick 
Dews shudder from it, and no m.in 
would be 
The stroker of his mane, much less 
wo Id prick 
His nostril with a reed. When nations 
roar 
Like lions, who shall tame them, and 
defraud 
Of the due pasture by the river-shore? 
Roar, therefore ! shake your dew-laps 
dry abroad — 
The amphitheatre with open door 

Leads back upon the benchers who 
applaud 
The last spear-thruster 1 



XVIII. 
Yet the Heavens forbid 
That we should call on pas*on to 
confront 
The brutal with the brutal, and, amid 



This ripening world, suggest ^ lion- 
hu[it 
And lion-vengeance for the wrongs men 
did 
And do now, though the spears are 
getting blunt. 
We only call, because the sight and 
proof 
Of lion-strength hurts nothing ; and 
to show 
A lion-heart, and measure paw with 
hoof. 
Helps something, even, and will in- 
struct a foe 
Well as the onslaught, how to stand 
aloof I 
Or else the world gets past the mere 
brute blow 
Given or taken. Children use the fist 

Until they are of age to use the bram: 
And so we needed Csesars to assist 
Man's justice, and Napoleons to ex- 
plain 
God's counsel, when a point was nearly 
missed, 
Until our generations should attain 
Christ's stature nearer. Not that we, 
alas ! 
Attain already ; but a single inch 
Will raise to look down on the sw ords- 
man's pass. 
As knightly Roland on the coward's 
flinch; 
And, after chloroform and ether-gas. 
We find out slowly what the bee and 
finch 
Have ready found, through Nature's 
lamp in each. 
How to our races we may justify 
Our individual claims, and, as we reach 
Our own grapes, bend the top vines to 
supply 
The children's uses: how to fill a 
breach 
With olive branches ; how to quench 
a lie 
With truth, and smite a foe upon the 
cncek 
With Christ's most conquering kiss 1 
why, these are things 
Worth a great nation's finding, toprovt. 
weak 
The ' glorious arms ' of military 
kings I 



CASA GUIDI U'INDOiVS. 



»77 



And so with wide embrace, my Ens- 
land, seek 
To stifle the bad heat and flickerings 
Of this world's false and nearly ex- 
pended fire ! 
Draw palpitating arrows to the wood, 
And twang abroad thy high hopes, and 

thy higher 
Resolves, from that most vlrtiions alti- 
tude. 
Till nations shall nnconsciously aspire 
By looking up to thee, and learn that 
good 
And glory are not different. Announce 
law 
By freedom ; exalt chivalry by peace ; 
Instruct how clear calm eyes can over- 
awe. 
And how pure hands, stretched simply 
to release 
A bond-slave, will not need a sword to 
draw 
To be held dreadful. O my Eng- 
land, crease 
Thy purple with no alien agonies ! 
No struggles toward encroachment, 
no vile war ! 
Disband thy captains, change thy vic- 
tories. 
Be henceforth prosperous as the angels 
are — 
Helping, not humbling. 

XIX. 

Drums and battle cries 
Go out in music of the morning star — 
And soon we shall have thinkers in the 
place 
Of fighters ; each found able as a 
man 
To strike electric influence through a 
race. 
Unstayed by city-wall and barbican. 
The poet shall look grander in the face 
Than even of old, when he of Greece 
began 
To sing that ' Achillean wrath which 
slew 
So many heroes,' — seeing he shall 
treat 
The deeds of souls heroic toward the 
true — 
The oracles of life — previsions sweet 



And awful, like divine swans gliding 
through 
White arms of Ledas, which will 
leave the heat 
Of their escaping godship to endue 
The human medium with a heavenly 
flush. 
Meanwhile, in thissame Italy we want 
Not popular passion, to arise and 
crush. 
But popular conscience, which may cov- 
enant 
For what it knows. Concede without 
a blush — 
To grant the ' civic guard ' is not to 
grant 
The civic spirit, living and awake. 
Those lappets on your shoulders, citi- 
zens, 
Your eyes strain after sideways till 
they ache. 
While still, in admirations and amens. 
The crowd comes up on festa-days, x.9 
take 
The great sight in — are not intelli 
gence. 
Not courage even — alas, if not tht. 
sign 
Of something very noble, they ar" 
nought ; 
For every day ye dress your sallow' 
kine 
With fringes down their cheeks, though 
unbesought 
They loll their heavy heads and drag 
the wine. 
And bear the wooden yoke as they 
were taught 
The first day. What ye want is light — 
indeed 
Not sunlight — (ye may well look up 
surprised 
To those unfathomable heavens that 
feed 
Vour purple hills !) — but God's light 
organised 
In some high soul, crowned capable 
to lead 
The conscious people, — conscious and 
advised, — 
For if we lift a people like mere clay. 
It falls the same. We want thee, O 
un found 



»jZ 



CASA GUIDl WlNDUiVS. 



And sovran teacher ! — if thy beard be 
grey 
Or black, we bid thee rise up from the 
ground 
And speak the word God giveth thee 
to say, 
Inspiring into all this people round. 
Instead of passion, thought, which 
pioneers 
All generous passion, purifies from sin. 
And str ikes the hour for. Rise up 
teacher ! here's 
A crowd to make a nation ! — best begin 
By making each a man, till all be peers 
Of earth's true patriots and pure mar- 
tyrs in 
Knowing and daring. Best unbar the 
doors 
Which Peter's heirs keep locked so 
overdose 
They only let the mice across the 
floors, 
While every churchman dangles as he 
goes 
The great key at his girdle, and ab- 
hors 
In Christ's name, meekly. Open wide 
the house- 
Concede the entrance with Christ's 
liberal mind. 
And set the tables with His wine and 
bread. 
What ! commune in ' both kinds?' In 
every kind — 
Wine, wafer, love, hope, truth, un- 
limited, 
Nothuig kept back. For when a man 
is blind 
To starlight, will he see the rose is red ? 
A bondsman shivering at a Jesuit's 
foot— _ 
' Va; ! mea, culpa, !' is not like to stand 

A freedman at a despot's, and dispute 
His titles by the balance in his hand. 
Weighing them 'suojure.' Tend the 
root. 
If careful of the branches; and expand 
The inner souls of men before you 
strive 
For civic heroes. 

XX. 

But the teacher, where ? 
From all these crowded faces, all 
alive. 



Eyes, of their own hds flashing thera. 
selves bare. 
And brows that with a mobile life 
contrive 
A deeper shadow — may we no wise dare 
lo point a finger out, and touch a man. 
And cry ' this is the leader.' What, all 
these !— 
Broad heads, black eyes, — yet not a 
soul that ran 
From God down with a message ? All, 
to please 
The donna waving measures with her 
fan. 
And not the judgment-angel on his 
knees — 
Tlie trumpet just an inch ofT froni 
his lips — ■ 
Who when he breathes next, will put 
out the sun ? 
Yet mankind's self were foundered in 
eclipse. 
If lacking doers, with great works to be 
done. 
And lo, the startled earth already dips 
Back into light— a better day's begun — 
And soon this leader, teacher, will 
stand plain. 
And build the golden pipes and synthe- 
size 
This people-organ for a holier strain. 
We hold this hope, and still in all these 
eyes. 
Go sounding for the deep look whick 
shall drain 
Suffused thought into channelled enter- 
prise ! 
Where is the teacher? What now 
may he do. 
Who shall do greatly ? Doth he gird 
his waist 
With a monk's rope, like Luther ? or 
pursue 
The goat, like Tell ? or dry his nets in 
haste, 
Like Masaniello when the sky was 
blue? 
Keep house like other peasants, with in- 
laced 
Bare, brawny arms about a favourite 
child, 
And meditative looks beyond the door. 
(But not to mark the kidling's teeth 
have filed 



CAS. I CUIDI WINDOWS. 



27-3 



The green shoots of his vine which last 
year bore 
Full twenty bunches;) or, on triple- 
piled 
Throne- velvets sits at ea-se, to bless the 
poor. 
Like other pontiffs, in the Poorest's 
name. 
The old tiara keeps itself aslope 

Upon his steady brows, which, all the 
same. • 

Bend mildly to permit the people's hope ? 



Whatever hand shall grasp this ori- 
flamme. 
Whatever man (last peasant or first Pope 
Seeking to free his country !) shall 
appear. 
Teach, lead, strike fire into the masses, 
fill 
These empty bladders with fine air, 
insphere 
These wills into a unity of will, 

And make of Italy a nation — dear 
And blessed be that man ! the Heavens 
shall kill 
No leaf the earth shall grow for him ; 
and Death 
Shall cast him back upon the lap of Life, 
To live more surely, in a clarion- 
breath 
Of hero-music ! Brutus, with the knife, 
Rienzi, with the fasces, throb beneath 
Rome's stones ; and more, who threw 
awav joy's fife 
Like Pallas, that the beauty of their 
souls 
Might ever shine untroubled and entire ! 
But if it can be true that he who lolls 
The Church's thunders will reserve her 
fire 
For only light : from cucharistic bowls 
Will pour new life for nations that ex- 
pire, 
And rend the scarlet of his Papal vest 
To gird the weak loins of his country- 
men — 
•I hold that he surpasses all the rest 
Of Romans, heroes, patriots, — and that 
when 
He sat down on the throne, he dispos- 
sessed 



The first graves of some glory. See 
again. 
This country-saving is a glorious 
thing I 
And if .a common man achieved it ? 
Well ! 
Say, a rich man did ? Excellent ! A 
king? 
That grows sublime 1 A priest ? Im- 
probable ! 
A Pope ? Ah, there we stop and can- 
not bring 
Our faith up to the leap, with history's 
bell 
So heavy round the neck of it — albeit 
We fain would grant the possibility 
For tky sake, Pio Nono ! 



Stretch thy feet 
In that case — I will kiss them reverently 

As any pilgrim to the Papal seat ! 
And, such proved possible, thy throne to 
me 
Shall seem as holy a place as Pelli- 
co's 
Venetian dungeon ; or as Spielberg's 
grate. 
At which the Lombard woman hung 
the rose 
Of her sweet soul, by its own dewy 
weight, 
To feel the dungeon round her sun- 
shine close 
And pining so, died early, yet too late 
For what she suflFered ! Yea, I will 
not choose 
Betwixt thy throne. Pope Pius, and the 
spot 
Marked red for ever spite of rains and 
dews 
Where two fell riddled by the Austrian's 
shot— 
The brothers Bandiera, who accuse. 
With one same mother-voice and face, 
(that what 
They speak may be invincible,) the 
sins 
Of earth's tormentors before God, the 
just. 
Until the unconscious thunder-bolt 
begins to loosen in His grasp. 



CASA GUIDI VVINDOIVS. 



And yet we must 
Beware, and mark the natural kiths 
and kins 
Of circumstance and office, and distrust 
A rich man reasoning in a poor man's 
hut ; 
A poet who neglects pure truth to 
prove 
Statistic fact ; a child who leaves a 
. rut 
For a smoother road ; the priest who 
vows his glove 
Exhales no grace ; the prince who 
walks a-foot ; 
The woman who has sworn she will not 
love ; 
And this Ninth Pius in Seventh Greg- 
ory's cbair. 
With Andrea Doria's forehead ! 



Count what goes 
To make up a pope before he wear 
That triple crown. We pass the world- 
wide tkroes 
Which went to make the popedom, — 
the despair 
Of free men, good men, wise men ; the 

dread shows 
Of women's faces, by the fagot's flash. 
Tossed out, to the minutest stir and throb 
O' the white lips, the least tremble of a 
lash. 
To glut the red stare of a licensed mob ! 
The short mad cries down oubliettes, 
and plash 
So horribly far off! priests, trained to 
rob. 
And kings that, like encouraged night- 
mares, sate 
On nations' hearts most heavily dis- 
tressed 
With monstrous sights and apoph- 
thegms of fact ! — 
We pass these things, — because 'the 
times ' are prest 
With necessary charges of the weight 
Of all this sin, and ' Calvin, for the rest. 
Made bold to burn Servetus — Ah, 
men err I ' 
And so do churches ? which is all we 
mean 



To bring to proof in any register 
Of theological fat kine and lean — 
So drive them back into the pens ! 
refer 
Old sins (with pourpoint, ' quotha ' and 
' I ween,') 
Entirely to the old times, the old 
times ; 
Nor ever ask why this preponderant. 
Infallible, pure Church could set her 
chimes 
Most loudly then, just then, — most jubi- 
lant. 
Precisely then — when mankind stood 
in crimes 
Full heart-deep, and Heaven's judg- 
ments were not scant 
Inquire still less, what signifies a 
church 
Of perfect inspiration and pure laws. 
Who burns the first man with a brim- 
stone-torch. 
And grinds the second, bone by bone, 
because 
The times, forsooth, are used to rack 
and scorch ! 
What is a holy Church, unless she awes 
The times down from theirsins? Did 
Christ select 
Such amiable times, to come and teach 
Love to, and mercy? "Ihe whole 
world were wrecked. 
If every mere great man, who lives to 
reach 
A little leaf of popular respect. 
Attained not simply by some special 
breach 
In the age's customs, by some prece- 
dence 
In thought and act, which, having 
proved him higher 
Than those he lived with, proved his 
competence 
In helping them to wonder and aspire. 

XXV. 

My words are guiltless of the bigot's 
sense ! 
My soul has fire to mingle with the fire* 
Of all these souls, within or out of 
doors 
Of Rome's Church or another. I be- 
lieve 



CAS.-l CUIDl 


U-IXDOWS. 2S1 


In one priest, and one temple, with its 


Transmitted through the darks uf 


floors 


time, to catch 


Of shining jasper gloom'J at morn and 


The man within the wrappage, and dis- 


eve 


cern 


By countless knees of earnest audit- 


How he, an honest man, upon the 


ors ; 


watch 


And crystal walls, too lucid to perceive, 


Full fifty years, for what a man may 


That none may take the measure of 


learn. 


the place 


Contrived to get just there ; with 


And say, ' so far the porphyry ; then, 


what a snatch 


the flint — 


Of old world oboli he had to earn 


To this mark, mercy goes, and there. 


The passage through ; with what a 


ends grice,' 


drowsy sop 


Though still the permeable crystals hint 


To drench the busy barkings of his 


At some white starry distance, bathed 


brain ; 


in space ! 


What ghosts of pale tradition, wreath- 


I feel how nature's ice-crusts keep the 


ed with hop 


dint 


'Gainst wakeful thought, he had to 


Of undersprings of silent Deity ; 


entertain 


I hold the articulated gospels, which 


For heavenly visions ; and consent to 


Show Christ among us, crucified on 


stop 


tree ; 


The clock at noon, and let the hour re- 


I love all who love truth, if poor or rich 


main 


In what they have won of truth pos- 


(Without vain windings up) inviolate. 


sessively ! 


Against all chimings from the belfry. 


No altars and no hands defiled with 


Lo! 


pitch 


From every given pope you must 


Shall scare me off, but I will pray and 


abate. 


eat 


Albeit you love Him, some things — good. 


With all these — taking leave to choose 


you know — 


my ewers 


Which every given heretic you hate 


And say at last, ' Your visible 


Assumes for his, as being plainly fo. 


Churches cheat 


A pope must hold by popes a little, — 


Their inward types; and if a Church 


yes. 


assures 


By councils, — from Nicaea up to Trent, 


Of standing without failure and de- 


By hierocratic empire, more or less 


feat. 


Irresponsible to men, — he must resent 


The same both fails and lies !' 


Each man's particular conscience, and 




repress 




Inquiry, meditation, argument. 


XXVI. 


As tyrants faction. Also, he must not 


To leave which lures 


Love truth too dangerously, but pre- 


Of wider subject through past years. 


fer 


—behold. 


'The interests of the Church,' be- 


We come back from the Popedom to 


cause a blot 


the Pope. 


Is better than a rent in miniver, — 


• To ponder what he must be, ere we 


Submit to see the people swallow hot 


are bold 


Husk - porridge which his chartered 


For what he may be, with our heavy 


churchmen stir. 


hope 


Quoting the only true God's epigraph. 


To trust upon his soul. So, fold by 


' Feed my lambs, Peter I ' — must con- 


fold, 


sent to sit 


Explore this mummy in the priestly 


Attesting with his pastoral ring and 


cope 


staff, 



289 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



To such a picture of our Lady, hft 
Olf well by artist angels, though not 
h.Uf 
As fair as Giotto would have painted it ; 
To such a vial, where a dead man's 
blood 
R^ins yearly warm beneath a church- 
m in's finger ; 
To such a holy house of stone and 
wood, 
Whireof a cloud of angels was the 
bringer 
From Bethlehem to Loreto ! — Were it 
good 
For any pope on earth to be a flinger 
Of stones against those high-niched 
counterfeits '\ 
Apostates only are iconoclasts. 

He dares not say, while this false 
thin^j abets 
That true thing, ' this is false ! ' he 
keep; his fasts 
And prayers, as prayer and fast were 
silver frets 
To change a note upon a string that 
lasts,. 
And make a lie a virtue. Now, if he 
Did more than this, — higher hoped and 
braver dared, 
I thuik he were a pope in jeopardy. 
Or n J pope rather ! for his truth had 
birred 
I'he vaulting of his life. And cer- 
tainly 
If he do only this, mankind's regard 
Move; on from him at once, to seek 
some new 
Teacher and leader ! He is good and 
great 
According to the deeds a pope can 
do : 
Most liberal, save those bonds ; affection- 
ate. 
As princes may be ; and, as priests 
are, true — 
But only the ninth Pius after eight, 
When all's praised most. At best and 
hopeful lest, 
He's;)>;)2 — we want a man ! his heart 
biats warm. 
But, like the prince enchanted to the 
waist. 
He sits in stone, and hardens by a 
charm 



Into the marble of his throne high- 
placed ! 
Mild benediction waves his saintly 
arm — 
So good ! but what we want's a per- 
fect man. 
Complete and all alive : half traver- 
tine 
Half-suits our need, and ill subserves 
our plan. 
Feet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies di- 
vine 
Were never yet too much for men who 
ran 
In such hard ways as must be this of 
thine, 
Deliver whom we seek, whoe'er thou 
art. 
Pope, prince, or peasant ! If, indeed, 
the first. 
The noblest, therefore ! since the 
heroic heart 
Within thee must be great enough to 
burst 
Those trammels buckling to the baser 
part 
Thy saintly peers in Rome, who crossed 
and cursed 
With the same finger. 

XXVII. 

Come, appear, be found. 
If Pope or peasant come ! we hear the 
cock. 
The courtier of the mountains when 
first crowned 
With golden dawn ; and orient glories 
flock 
To meet the sun upon the highest 
ground 
Take voice and work ! we wait to hear 
thee knock 
At some one of our Florentine nine 
gates. 
On each of which was imaged a sub- 
lime 
Face of a Tuscan genius, which for 
hate's 
And love's sake both, our Florence in 
her prime 
Turned boldly on all comers to her 
states. 
As heroes turned their shields in antique 
time. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



387 



Blazoned with honourable acts. And 
though 
['he gates are blank now of such images. 
And Petrarch looks no more from 
Nicolo 
Coward dear Arezzo, 'twixt the acacia 
trees, 
Nor Dante, from gate Gallo — atill we 
know. 
Despite the razing of the blazonries, 
Rem.iins the consecration of the 
shield.— 
The dead lieroic faces will start out 
0.1 all these gates, if foes should take 
the field, 
And blend sublimely, at the earliest 
shout. 
With living heroes who will scorn to 
yield 
A hiir's-brcadth ev'n, when, gazing 
round about, 
They find in what a glorious company 
They njht the foes of Florence! Who 
will grudge 
His one poor life, when that great man 
we see 
Has given five hundred years, the world 
be'u^ judge, 
To h ■^Ip the glory of his Italy ? 
Who, born the fair side of the Alps, will 
b.idge, 
When Dante stays, when Ariosto 
St a ys, 
When Petrarch stays for ever ? Ye bring 
swords. 
My Tuscans ? Why, if wanted in 
this haze, 
Bring swords, but first bring souls ! — 
bring thoughts and words 
Unrnsted by a tear of yesterday's. 
Vet awful by its wrong, and cut these 
cords 
And mow this green lush falseness to 
the roots. 
And sh It the mouth of hell below the 
swathe ! 
And if ye can bring songs too, let the 
• lute's 
Recoverable music softly bathe 

Some poet's hand, that, through all 
bursts and bruits 
Of\)0pular passion — all unripe and rathe 
'"onvictions of the popular intellect — 
'• { .Tiay not lack a finger up the air, 



Annunclativo, reproving, pure, erect, 
To show which way your first Ideal 
bare 
The whiteness of Its wings, when, 
sorely pecked 
By falcons on your wrists, it unaware 
Arose up overhead, and out of sight. 



Meanwhile, let all the far ends of the 
world 
Breathe back the deep breath of their 
old delight. 
To swell tl^^ Italian banner just un- 
furled. 
Help, lands of Europe! for, if Aus- 
tria fight. 
The drums will bar your slumber. Had 
ye curled 
The laurel for your thousand artists' 
brows. 
If these Italian hands had planted 
none ? 
Can any sit down idle in the house. 
Nor hear appeals from Buonarotti'ii 
stone 
And Raflfael's canvas, rousing and to 
roiis:; ? 
Where's Poussin's master ? Gallic Avig, 
non 
Bred Laura, and Vauclusc's fount has 
stirred 
The heart of France too strongly, — as it 
lets 
Its little stieam out, like a wizard's 
bird 
Which bounds upon its emer.ald wing, 
and wets 
The rocks on each side — that she 
should not gird 
Her loins witFi Charlemagne's sword 
when foes beset 
The country of her Petrarch. Spain 
may well 
Be minded how from Italy she caught, 
To mingle with her tinkling Moorish 
bell, 
A fuller cadence and a subtler thought ; 
And even the New World, the re- 
ceptacle 
Of freemen, may send glad men, as it 
ought, 
To greet Vespucci Amerigo's door ; 



z84 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



While England claims, by trump of 
poetry, 
Verona, Venice, the Ravenna shore. 
And dearer holds John Milton's Fie.sole 
Than Langlande's Malvern with the 
stars in flower. 

XXIS. 

And Vallombrosa, we two went to see 
Last June, beloved companion,— where 
sublime 
The mountains live in holy families, 
And the slow pinewoods ever climb 
and climb 
Half up their breasts ; just stagger as 
they seize '^ 

Some gray crag— drop back with it 
many a time, 
And straggle bUndly down the preci- 
pice I 
The Vallonibrosan brooks were strewn 
as thick 
That June-day, knee-deep, with dead 
beech en leaves. 
As Milton saw them ere his heart 
grew sick. 
And his eyes blind. I think the monks 
and beeves 
Are all the same too : scarce they 
have changed the wick 
On good St. Gualbert's altar, which re- 
ceives 
The convent's pilgrims ; and the pool 
m front 
Wherein the hill-stream trout are cast, 
to wait 
The beatific vision and the grunt 
Used at refectory, keeps its weedy state. 
To baffle saintly abbots who would 
count 
The (ish across their breviary, nor 'bate 
The measure of their steps. O water- 
falls 
And forests I sound and silence I moun- 
tains bare, 
That leap up peak by peak, and catch 
the palls 
Of purple and silver mist to rend and 
share 
With one another, at electric calls 
Of life in the sunbeams, — till we cannot 
dare 
Fi.x your shapes, count your number 1 
we must think 



Your beauty and your elory helped to 
fill 
The cup o{ Milton's soul so to the 
brink 
He never more was thirsty when God's 
will 
Had shattered to his sense the last 
chaiii-lmk 
By which he had drawn from Nature's 
visible 
The fresh well-water. Satisfied by 
this, 
He sang of Adam's paradise and smiled. 
Remembering Vallombrosa. There- 
fore is 
The place divine to English man and 
child- 
And pilgrims leave their sou'.s here in 
a kiss. 



For Italy's the whole earth's treasury, 
piled 
With reveries of gentle ladies, flung 
Aside, like ravelled silk, from the life's 
worn stuff' — 
With coins of scholars' fancy, which, 
being rung 
On work-day counter, still sound silver- 
proof — 
In short, with all the dreams of 
dreamers young. 
Before their heads have time for slip- 
ping off 
Hope's pillow to the ground. How 
o(t, indeed. 
We've sent our souls out from the rigid 
north. 
On bare white feet which would not 
print nor bleed 
To climb the Alpine passes and look 
forth. 
Where booming low the Lombard 
rivers lead 
To gardens, vineyards, all a dream is 
worth, — 
Sights, thou and I, Love, have seen 
afterward 
From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide 
awake,"" 



• Gallleo'B villa, close to Florence, ia biilll < 
II tiiiiliieiice callud DellosgUHrdo. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



When, standing on the actual blessed 
sward 
Where Galileo stood at nights to take 
The vision of the stars, we have found 
It hard. 
Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to 
make 
A choice of beauty. 

Therefore let us all 
Refreshed in England or in other land, 
liy visions, with their fountam-rise 
and fall 
Of this earth's darling, — we, who under- 
stand 
A little how the Tuscan musical 
Vowels do round themselves as if they 
plann'd 
Eternities of separate sweetness, — we 
Who loved Sorrento vines in picture- 
book, 
Or ere in wine-cup we pledged faith 
or glee — < 

Who loved Rome's wolf, with demi- 
gods at suck. 
Or ere we loved truth's own divin- 
ity— 
Who loved, in brief, the classic hill and 
brook. 
And Ovid's dreaming tales, and Pe- 
trarch's song. 
Or ere we loved Love's self even ! — ^let 
us give 
The blessing of our souls, and wish 
them strong 
To bear it to the 'neight where prayers 
arrive, 
When faithful spirits pray against a 
wrong ; 
To this great cause of southern men, 
who strive 
In God's name for man's rights, and 
shall not fail ! 



Behold, they shall not fail. The shouts 
ascend 
Above the shrieks, in Naples, and 
prevail. 
Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the 
end 
Of burial, seem to smile up straight 
and pale 



Into the azure air, and apprehend 

That final gun-flaah from Palermo's 
coast. 
Which lightens their apocalypse of 
death. 
So let them die ! The world shows 
nothing lost ; 
Therefore, not blood I above or under- 
neath. 
What matter, brothers, if ye keep 
your post 
On duty's side? As sword returns to 
sheath, 
So dust to grave, but souls find place 
in Heaven. 
Heroic daring is the true success. 
The eucharistic bread requires no 
leaven : 
And though your ends were hopeless, 
we should bless 
Your cause as holy! Strive — and, 
having striven. 
Take, for God's recompense, that right- 
eousness ! 



PART II. 



I WROTE a meditation and a dream. 

Hearing a little child smg in the street 
I leant upon his music as a theme. 
Till it gave way beneath my heart's 
full beat. 
Which tried at an exultant prophecy 
15iit dropped before the measure was 
complete — 
Alas, for songs and hearts ! O Tuscany, 
O Dante's Florence, is the type too 

plain ? 
Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty. 

As little children take up a high strain 
With unintentioned voices, and break 
off 
To sleep upon their mothers' knees 
again ? 
Could'st thou not watch one hour ? Then, 
sleep enough — 
That sleep may hasten manhood, and 
•;ustain 
The faint pale spirit with some muscular 
stuff. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Bat we who cannot slumber as thou 
doit. 
We thinkers, who have thought for thee 
and failed, 
We liopers, who have hoped for thee 
and lost. 
We poot4, wandered round by dreams,* 
, who hailed 

From this Atrides* roof (with lintel- 
post 
Which still drips blood, — the worst part 
hath prevailed) 
The fire- voice of the beacons, to de- 
clare 
Troy taken, sorrow ended, — cozened 
through 
A crimson sunset in a misty air, — 
What now remains for such as we, to do ? 
— God's judgments, peradventiire, 
will he bare 
To the roots of thunder, if we kneel aid 
sue '\ 



From Casa Guidi windows I looked 
forth, 
And saw ten thousand eyes of Floren- 
tines 
Flash back the triumph of the Lom- 
bard north, — 
Saw fifty banners, freighted with the 
signs 
And exultations of the awakened 
earth, 
Float on above the multitude in lines. 
Straight to the Piiti. So, the vision 
went. 
And so. between those populous rough 
hands 
Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold out- 
leant, 
And took the patriot's oath, which 
henceforth stands 
AmouT the oaths of perjurers, eminent 
To catch the lightnings ripened for 
these lands. 



Why swear at all, thou filse Duke 
Leopold 1 

' Ke'errini; to the well-known openiiii; pass- 
RK« of Il'P Affjiniemiion or ^-^chyliiB. 



What need to swear 1 What need to 
boast thy blood 
Unspoilt of Austria, and thy heart 
unsold 
Away from Florence ? It was under- 
stood 
God made thee not too vigorous or 
too bold. 
And men had patience with thy quiei; 
mood, 
And women, pity, as they saw thee 
pace 
Their festive streets with premature 
grey hairs : 
We turned the mild dejection of thy 
face 
To princely meanings, took thy wrink- 
ling cares 
For ruffling hopes, and called thee 
weak, not base. 
Nay, better light the torches for more 
prayers 
And smoke the pale Madonnas at the 
shrine. 
Being still ' our poor Grand-duke,' ' our 
good Grand-duke,' 
' Who cannot help the Austrian in his 
line,' 
Than write an oath upon a nation's book 
For men to spit at with scorn's blurring 
brine ! 
Who dares forgive what none can over- 
look ? 



For me, I do repent me in this dust 
Of towns and temples, which makes 
Italy,— 
I sigh amid the sighs which breathe a 
gust 
Of dying century to century. 

Around us on the uneven crater-Crust 
Of the old worlds, — I bow my soul and 
knee. 
Absolve me, patriots, of my woman's 
foult 
That ever I believed the man was true. 
These sceptred strangers shun the 
common salt 
And, therefore, when the general board's 
in view. 
And they stand up to carve for blmJ 
and halt. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



The wise suspect the viands which ensue. 
And 1 repent that in this time and 
* place, 
Where many corpse-lights of experience 
burn 
From Caesar's and Lorenzo's festering 
race, 
To enlighten groping reasonei-s, I could 
learn 
No better counsel for a simple case 
Than to put faith in princes, in my turn. 
Had all the death-piles of the ancient 
years 
Flared up in vain before me ? Knew 1 
not 
What stench arises from some purple 
gears — 
And how the sceptres witness whence 
they got 
Their briar-wood, crackling through 
the .atmosphere's 
Foul smoke, by princely perjuries, kept 
hot? 
Forgive me, ghosts of patriots, — 
Brutus, thou. 
Who tr.ailest downhill into life again 
Thy blood- weighed cloak, to indicc 
me with thy slow 
Reproachful eyes ! — for being taught in 
vain 
That while the illegitimate Cassars 
show 
Of meaner stature than the first full 
strain, 
(Confessed incompetent to conquer 
Gaul) 
They swoon as feebly and cross Rubi- 
cons 
As rashly as any Julius of them all. 
Forgive, that I forgot the mind- which 
runs 
Through absolute races, too unscepti- 
cal! 
I saw the man among his little .sons, 
Hi>i lips were warm with kisses while 
he swore, — 
And I, because I am a woman, I, 

Who felt my own child's coming life 
before 
The prescience of my soul, and held 
f.iith high, 
I could not bear to think, whoever 
bore. 



That lips, so warmed, could .shape so 
cold a lie. 



From Casa Guidi windows I looked 
out. 
Again looked, and beheld a different 
sight. 
The Duke had fled before the peo- 
ple's shout 
'Long live the Duke!' A people, to 
speak right. 
Must -^peak as soft as courtiers, lest a 
doubt 
Should curdle brows of gracious sover- 
eigns, white 
Moreover that same dangerous shout- 
ing meant 
Some gratitude for future favours, 
which 
Were only promised ; — the Constitu- 
ent 
Implied : — the whole being subject to 
the hitch 
In niotu proprios, very incident 
To all these Czars, from Paul to Paulo- 
vitch. 
Whereat the people rose up in the 
dust 
Of the ruler's flying feet, and shouted 
still 
And loudly, only, this time, as was 
just. 
Not ' Live the Duke,' who had fled, for 
good or ill, 
But ' Live the People,' who remained 
and must. 
The unrenounced and unrenounceable. 



Long live the people ! How they 
lived ! and boiled 
And bubblid in the cauldron of the 
street ! 
How the young blustered, nor the old 
recoiled. 
And what a thunderous stir of tongues 
and feet 
Trod flat the palpitating bells, and 
foiled 
The joy-guns of their echo, shattering 



a88 CASA GUIDI 


WINDOWS. 


How they pulled down the Duke's 


We chased the archbishop from the 


arms everywhere ! 


duomo door — 


How they set up new cafe-signs, to 


We chalked the walls with bloody ca- 
veats ▼ 


show 


Where patriots might sip ices in pure 


Against all tyrants. If we did not figl.t 


air — 


Exactly, we fired muskets up the air. 


(The fresh paint smellmg somewhat.) 


To show that victory was ours of 


To and Iro 


right. 


How marched the civic guard, and 


We met, had free discussion every- 


stopped to stare 


where. 


When boys broke windows in a civic 


E.xcept, perhaps, i' the chambers, day 


glow. 


and night : 


How rebel songs were sung to loyal 


We proved the poor should be employed. 


tunes, 


. . . that's fair, — 


And Bishops cursed in ecclesiastical me- 


And yet the rich not worked for 


tres ! 


anywise, — 


How all the Circoli grew large as 


Pay certified, yet prayers abrogated, 


moons. 


Full work secured, yet liabilities 


And all the speakers, moonstruck ! — 


To over- work excluded, — not one bated 


thankful greeters 


Of all our holidays, that still at twice 


Of prospects which struck poor the 


Or thrice a-week, are moderately rated. 


ducal boons. 


We proved that Austria was dis- 


A mere free press, and chambers ! — 


lodged, or would 


frank repeaters 


Or should be, and that Tuscany in arms 


Of great Guerazzi's praises . . . 


Should, would, dislodge her, ending the 


' There's a man. 


old feud ; 


The father of the land ! — who, truly 


And yet, to leave our piazzas, shops, and 


^ great, 


farms. 


Takes off that national disgrace and 


For the bare sake of fighting, was not 


ban. 


good. 


The farthing-ta.v up6n our Florence- 


We proved that also — ' Did we can y 


gate, 


charms 


And saves Italia as he only can ' 


Against being killed ourselves, that 


How all the nobles fled, and wovild not 


we should rush 


wait. 


On killing others ? What ! desert here- 


Because they were most noble ! which 


with 


being so, 


Our wives and mothers! — was that 


How liberals vowed to burn their pal- 


duty '? Tush ! ' 


aces. 


At which we shook the sword within the 


Because free Tuscans were not free to 


sheath. 


go. 


Like heroe.s — only louder ! and the 


How grown men raged at Austria's 


flush 


wickedness. 


Ran up the cheek to meet the future 


And smoked, — while fifty striplings in 


wreath. 


a row 


Nay, what we proved, we shouted — 


Marched straight to Piedmont for the 


how we shouted. 


wrong's redress ! 


(Especially the boys did) boldly planting 


You say we failed in duty, we who 


That tree of liberty whose Iruit is 


wore 


doubted. 


Black velvet like Italian democrats. 


Because the roots are not of nature's 


Who slashed our sleeves like patriots, 


granting— 


nor forswore 


A tree of good and evil ! — none, w ith- 


'I'he true republic in the form of hats ? 


out it. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



2C(). 



Grow gods ! — alas, and, with it, men are 
wanting. 



O holy knowledge, holy hberty. 
O holy rights of nations ! If I speak 
These bitter things against the jug- 
glery 
Of days that in your names proved 
blind and weak. 
It is that tears are bitter. When we 
see 
The brown skulls grin at death in 
churchyards bleak. 
We do not cry, 'This Yorick is too 
light,' 
For death grows deathlier with that 
mouth he makes. 
So with my mocking. Bitter things 
I write. 
Because my sou! is bitter for yoursakes, 
O freedom 1 O my Florence ! 



Men who might 
Do greatly in a universe that breaks 
And burns, must ever know before 
they do. 
Courag" and patience are but sacrifice ; 

A sacrifice is offered for and to 
Something conceived of. Each man 
pays a price 
For what himself coimts precious, 
whether true 
Or false the appreciation it implies. 
But here, — no knowedge, no concep- 
tion, nought ! 
Desire was absent, that provides great 
deeds 
From out the greatness of prevenient 
thought ; 
And action, action, like a flame that 
needs 
A steady breath and fuel, being 
caught 
Up, like a burning reed from other 
reeds, 
Flashed in the empty and uncertain 
air. 
Then wavered, then went out. Behold, 
who blames 
A crooked course, when not a goal is 
there. 



To round the fervid striving of the 

games ? 

An ignorance of means may minister 

To greatness, but an ignorance of aims 

Makes it impossible to be great at all. 

So with our Tuscans I Let none dare to 

say. 
Here virtue never can be national. 
Here fortitude can never cut its way 
Between the Austrian muskets, out of 
thrall. 
I tell you rather that whoever may 
Discern true ends here, shall grow 
pure enough 
To love them, brave enough to strive for 
them, 
And strong enough to reach them, 
though the roads be rough : 
That having learnt — by no mere apoph- 
thegm — 
Nor just the draping of a graceful 
stuff 
About a statue, broidered at the hem, — 
Not just the trilling nn an opera stage. 
Of ' libertii ' to bravos — (a fair word. 

Yet too allied to inarticulate rage 
And breathless sobs, for singing, though 
the cord 
Were deeper than they struck it !)— 
but the guage 
Of civil wants sustained, and wrongs 
abhorred, — 
The serious, sacred meaning and full 
use. 
Of freedom for a nation, — then, indeea. 
Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody 
dews 
Of some new morning, rising up agreed 
And bold, will want no Saxon souls 
or thews. 
To sweep their piazzas clear of .Austria's 
breed. 



Ala-s, alas ! it was not so this time. 
Conviction was not, courage failed, and 
truth 
Was something to be doubted of. 
The mime 
Changed masks, because a mime ; the 
tide as smooth 
In punning in as out ; no sense of 
crime 



290 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS, 



Uecausc no sense of virlvie. Sudden ruth 
Seized on the people . . . ihey would 
have again 
Their Grand-duke, and leave Guerazzi, 
though 
He took that tax from Florence : — 
Mach in vain 
He takes it from the market-carts, we 
trow. 
While urgent that no market-men re- 
main. 
But all march off and leave the spade 
and plough 
To die among the Lombards. Was it 
thus 
The dear paternal Duke did ? ' Live the 
Duke!' 
At which the joy-bells multitudinous. 
Swept by an opposite wind, as loudly 
shook. 
Recall the mild Archbishop to his 
house, 
To bless the people with his frightened 
look. 
He shall not yet be hanged, you com- 
prehend. 
Seize on Guerazzi ; guard him in full 
viev. 
Or else we stab him in the back, to end. 
Rub out those chalked devices ! Set up 
new 
The Duke's arms ; doff your Phry; 
gian caps ; and mend 
The pavement of the piazza-s broke into 
By barren poles of freedom ! Smooth 
the way 
For the ducal carriage, lest his highness 
sigh 
'Here trees of liberty grew yester- 
day.' 
Long live the Duke ! — How roared the 
cannonry, 
How rocked the bell-towers, and 
through thickening spray 
Of nosegays, wreaths, and kerchiefs 
tossed on high. 
How marched the civic guard, the 
people still 
BeinJ good at shouts. — especially the 
boys 
Alas, poor people, of an unflectged will 
Most fitly expressed by such a callow 
\oice ! 



Alas, .still poorer duke, incapable 
Of being worthy even so much noise ! 



You think he came back instantly, 
with thanks 
And tears in his faint eyes, and hands 
extended 
To stretch the franchi.se through their 
utmost ranks ? 
That having, like a father, apprehended. 
He came to pardon latherly those 
pranks 
Played out, and now in filial service 
ended ? — 
That some love token, like a prince, 
he threw. 
To meet the people's love-call, in re. 
turn '? 
Well, how he came I will relate to 
you ; 
And if your hearts should burn, why, 
hearts nnist burn. 
To make the ashes which things old 
and new 
Shall be washed clean in — as this Duke 
will learn. 



From Casa Guidi windows gazing, 
then, 
I saw and witness how the Duke came 
back. 
The regular tramp of horses and tread 
of men 
Did smite the silence like an anvil 
black 
And sparkless. With her wide eyes 
at full strain. 
Our Tuscan nurse exclaimed, ' Alack, 
alack, 
Signora ! these shall be the Austrians,' 
■ Nay. 
Be still,' 1 answered, 'do not wake the 
child !' 
For so, my two-months' baby .sleep- 
ing lay 
In milky dreams upon the bed and 
smiled ; 
And I thought, ' he shall sleep on 
while he may. 
Through the world's bxseness. Not 
being yet defiled, 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. zqi 


Why should he be disturbed by what 


Here's Samuel ! — and, so, Grand-dukos 


is done V 


come back. 


Then, gazing, I beheld the long-drawn 




street 


XIII. 


Live out, from end to end, full in the 


And yet they are no prophets though 


sun. 


they come. 


With Austria's thousands. Sword and 


That awful mamtle they are drawing 


bayonet, 


close, 


Horse, foot, artillery, — cannons roll- 


Shall be searched, one day, by the 


ing on, 


shafts of Doom, 


Like bhnd, slow storm-clouds gestant 


Through double folds now hoodwinking 


with tha heat 


the brows. 


O." undeveloped lightnings, each be- 


Resuscitated monarchs disentomb 


strode 


Grave-reptiles with them, in their new 


By a single man, dust-white from head 


life-throes : 


to heel. 


Let such beware. Behold, the people 


Indifferent as the dreadful thing he 


waits. 


rode. 


Like God. As He, in his serene of 


Like a sculptored Fate serene and terri- 


m ght. 


ble- ! 


So they, in their endurance of long 


As some smooth river which has over- 


str.iits 


flowed. 


Ye stamp no nation out, though day and 


Will slow and silent down its current 


night 


wheel 


Ye tread them with that absolute heel 


A loosened forest, all the pines erect — 


which grate-; 


So, swept, in mute significance of storm, 


And grmds them flat from all attempted 


Tha marshalled thousands, — ^not an 


height. 


eye deflect 


You kill worms sooner with a garden- 


To left or right, to catch a novel form 


spade 


Of Florence city adorned by architect 


Than vou kill peoples : peoples will not 


And carver, or of beauties live and 


die ; 


warm 


The tail curls stronger when you lop 


Scared at the casements, — all, straight- 


the head ; 


forward eyes 


They writhe at every woimd and mul- 


And faces, held as steadfast as their 


tiply. 


swords. 


And shudder into a heap of life that's 


And cognisant of acts, not imageries. 


made 


The key, O Tuscans, too well fits the 


Thus vital from God's own vitality. 


wards ! 


'Tis hard to shrivel back a day of 


Ye asked for mimes ; these bring )'ou 


Gnd's 


tragedies — 


Once fi.xed for judgment : 'tis hard to 


For p\irple : these shall wear it as your 


change 


lords. 


The people's, when they rise beneath 


Ye played like children : die like in- 


their loads 


nocents I 


And heave them from their backs with 


Ye mimicked lightnings with a torch : 


violent wrench. 


the crack 


To crush the oppressor. For that 


Of the actual bolt, your pastime, cir- 


judgment rod's 


cumvents. 


The measure of this popular revenge. 


Ve called up ghosts, believing they were 




slack 


XIV. 


To follow any voice from Gilboa's 


Meantime, from Casa Guidi windows 


teats, . , . 


we 



,o9 CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 


Beheld the armament of Austria flow 


Where none could pluck it down. On 


into the drowning iieart of Tuscany. 


trees, I say, — 


And yet none wept, none cursed ; or, if 


Not upon giLibets 1— -With the green- 


'twjs so, 


ery 


They wept and cursed in silence. Si- 


Of dewy branches and the flowery May, 


lently 


Sweet meditation betwixt earth and 


Our noisy Tuscans watched the invadinff 


sky 


foe ; 


Providing, for the shepherd's holiday ! 


They had learnt silence. Pressed 


Not upon gibbeLs! though tliie vul- 


ag.iinst the wail 


tare leaves 


And grouped upon the church-steps 


The hones to quiet, which he first picked 


opposite, 


bare. 


A few pale men and women stared at 


Not upon dungeons ! though the 


all. 


wretch who grieves 


God knows what they were feeling, with 


And groans within, stirs less the outer 


their white 


air 


Constranied faces ! — they, so prodigal 


Than any little field-mouse stirs the 


Of cry and gesture when the world 


sheaves. 


goes right. 


Not. upon chain - bolts ! though the 


Or wrong indeed. But here, was 


slave's despair 


depth of wrong. 


Has dulled his helpless, miserable 


And here, still water : they were silent 


biain. 


here : 


And left him blank beneath the free- 


And through that sentient silence. 


man's whip. 


struck along. 


To sing and laugh out idiocies of pain. 


That measured tramp from which it 


Nor yet on starving homes ! wl.ere 


stood out clear 


many a lip 


Distinct the sound and silence, like a 


Has sobbed itself asleep through 


gong 


curses vain I 


At midnight, each by the other awfuller. 


I love no peace which is not fellowship. 


While every soldier in his cap dis- 


And winch includes not mercy. I 


played 


would have 


A leaf of olive. Dusty, bitter thing ! 


Rather, the raking of the guns across 


Was such plucked at Novara, is it 


The world, and shrieks against Hea- 


said ? 


ven's architrave. 




Rather, the struggle in the slippery fosse 


XV. 


Of dying men and horses, and the 


A cry is up in England, which doth ring 


wave 


The hollow world through, that for 


Blood-bubbling. . . . Enough said! — 


ends of trade 


By Christ's own cross. 


And virtue, and God's better worship- 


And by the faint heart of my woman- 


pi'ig. 


hood. 


We henceforth should exalt the name 


Such things are better than a Peace 


of Peace, 


which sits 


And leave those rusty wars that eat the 


Beside the hearth in self-commended 


soul, — 


mood. 


Besides their clippings at our golden 


And takes no thought how wind and 


fleece. 


rain by fits 


I, too, have loved peace, and from bole 


Are howling out of doors against the 


to bole 


good 


Of immemorial, undeciduous trees. 


Of the poor wanderer. What ! your 


Would write, as lovers use, upon a scroll 


peace admits 


Tlie holy name of Peace, and set it 


Of outside anguish while it keeps at 


high 


home ? 



CASA QUID I WIXDOWS. 



»93 



I loathe to take its name upon my 
tongue — 
'Tis nowise peace. 'Tis treason, stiff 
. with doom, — 

'Tis gagged despair, and inarticulate 
wrong, 
Anniliilated Poland, stifled Rome, 
Dazed Naples, Hungary fainlmg 'neath 
the thong. 
And Austria wearing a smooth olive- 
leaf 
On her brute forehead, while her hoofs 
outpress 
The life from these Italian souls, in 
brief. 
O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of 
Righteousness, 
Constrain the anguished worlds from 
sin and gnef, 
Pierce them with conscience, purge them 
with redress. 
And give us peace which is no coun- 
terfeit ! 

XVI. 
Bat wherefore should we look out any 
more 
From Casa Guidi windows ? Shut 
them straight ; 
And let us sit down by the folded door 
And veil our saddened faces, and so, 
wait 
What next the judgment-heavens make 
ready for. 
I have grown weary of these windows. 
Sights 
Come thick enough and clear enough in 
thought. 
Without the sunshine : souls have in- 
ner lights : 
And since the Grand-duke has come 
back and brought 
This army of the North which thus 
requites 
Hi? filial South, we leave him to be 
taught. 
His South, too, has learnt something 
certainly. 
Whereof the practice will bring profit 
soon ; 
And perad venture other eyes may see, 
I'Vom Casa Guidi windows, what is 
done 



Or undone. Whatsoever deeds they 
be. 
Pope Pius will be glorified in none. 



Record that gain, INIazzini ! — it shall 
top 
Some heights of sorrow. Peter's rock, 
so named. 
Shall lure no vessel any more to drop 
Among the breakers. Peter's chair is 
shamed 
Like any vulgar throne the nations 
lop 
To pieces for their firewood unreclaim- 
ed : 
And, when it burns too, we shall see 
as well 
In Italy as elsewhere. Let it burn. 

The cross, accounted .still adorable. 
Is Christ's cross only ! — if the thief's 
would earn 
Some stealthy genuflexions, we rebel ; 
And here the impenitent thief's has had 
its turn. 
As God knows ; and the people on 
their knees 
Scoff and toss back the croziers, stretch- 
ed like yokes 
To press their heads down lower by 
degrees. 
So Italy, by means of these last strokes. 
Escapes the danger which preceded 
these. 
Of leaving captured hands in cloven 
oaks . . . 
Of leaving very souls within the 
buckle 
Whence bodies struggUd outward . . . 

of supposing 
That freemen may like bondsmen kneel 

and truckle. 
And then stand upas usual, without los- 
ing 
An inch of stature. 

Those whom she-wolves suckle 
Will bite as wolves do, in the grapple- 
closing 
Of adverse interests : this, at last, is 
known, 
(Thank Pius for the Ies.son) that albeit 
Among the Popedom's hundred heads 
of stone 



•V4 



CAS A CUIDI WINDOWS. 



Which blink down on you from the 
lool's retreat 
In Siena's tiger-striped cathedral, — 
Joan 
And Borgia 'mid their fellows you may 
greet, 
A harlot and a devil, you will see 
Not a man, still less angel, grandly 
set 
With open soul to render man more 
free. 
The fishers are still thinking of the net, 
And if not thinking of the hook too, 
we 
Are counted somewhat deeply in their 
debt: 
But that's a rare case — so, by hook and 
crook 
They take the advantage, agonizing 
Christ 
By rustier nails than those of Cedron's 
brook, 
I' the people's body very cheaply 
priced ; 
And quote high priesthood out of 
Holy book. 
While buying death - fields with the 
sacrificed. 



Priest's, priests !--lhere'j no such name, 
God's own, except 
Ye take most vainly. Though Heaven's 
lifted gate • 
The priestly ephod in sole glory swept. 
When Christ ascended, enieieJ in, and 
sate 
With victor face sublimely overwept. 
At Deity's right hand, to n.eJiate, 

He alone. He for ever On his breast 
The Urim and the Thummim, fed with 
fire 
From the full Godhead, flicker with 
the unrest 
Of human, pitiful heartbeats Come up 
higher, 
All Christians! Levi's tribe is dis- 
possessed ! 
That solitary alb ye shall admire, 
But not cast lots for. The last chrism, 

poured right. 
Was on that Head, and poured for 
burial 



And not for domination in men's 
sight. 
What are these churches ? The old 
temple wall 
Doth overlook them juggling with the 
sleight 
Of surplice, candlestick, and altar-pall. 
East church and west church, ay, 
north church and south, 
Rome's church and England's — rletthem 
all repent. 
And make concordats 'twi.xt their soul 
and mouth, 
Succeed St. Paul by working at the tent. 
Become infallible guides Ly speaking 
truth. 
And excommunicate their pride that 
bent 
And cramped the souls of men. 

Why, even here. 
Priestcraft burns out ; the twined linen 
blazes. 
Not, like asbestos, to grow white and 
clear. 
But all to perish ! — while the fire-smell 
raises 
To life .some swooning spirits who, 
la.st year. 
Lost bre.it!> and heart in these church- 
stifleJ places. 
Why, almost, through this Pius, we 
believed 
The priesthood could be an honest thing, 
he smiled 
So saintly while our corn was being 
sheaved 
For his own granaries. Showing now 
defiled 
His hireling hands, a better help's 
achieved 
Than if he blessed us shepherd-like and 
mild. 
False doctrine, strangled by its own 
amen. 
Dies in the throat of all this nation. 
Who 
Will speak a pope's name, as they 
rise again ? 
What woman or what child will count 
him true ? 
What dreamer praise him with the 
voice or pen ? 
What man fight for him ? — Pius has his 
due. 



CASA GUIDl WINDOWS. 



"QS 



Record that gain, Mazzini ! — Yes, but 
first 
Set down thy people's faults : — set down 
the want 
Of soul-conviction ; set down aims 
dispersed, 
And incoherent means, and valour 
scant 
Because of scanty faith, and schisms 
accursed 
That wrench these brother-hearts from 
covenant 
With freedom and each other. Set 
down this 
And this, and see to overcome it when 
The seasons brings the fruits thou 
wilt not miss 
If wary. Let no cry of patriot men 

Distract thee from the stern analysis 
Of masses who cry only : keep thy km 
Clear as thy soul is virtuous. Heroes' 
blood 
Splashed up against thy noble brow in 
Rome. — 
Let such not blind thee to an inter- 
lude 
Which was not also holy, yet did come 
' r wixt sacramental actions: — brother- 
hood. 
Despised even there, — and something 
of the doom 
Of Remus, in the trenches. Listen 
now — 
Rossi die! silent near where Caesar 
died. 
He did not say, ' My Brutus, is it 
thou?' 
But Italy unquestioned testified, 

'/ killed him! — / am Brutus. — I 
avow.' 
At which the whole world's laugh of 
scorn replied, 
' A poor maimed copy of Brutus !' 

Too nnich like. 
Indeed, to be so unlike. Too unskille 1 
At Philippi and the honest battle- 
pike. 
To be so skilful where a m.an is killed 
Near Pompey's statue, and the dag- 
gers strike 
At unawares i' the throat. Was thus 
fulfilled 



An omen once of Michel Angelo. — 
When Marcus Brutus he conceived com- 
plete, 
And strove to hurl him out by blow 
on blow 
Upon the marble, at Art's thunderheat. 
Till haply some pre-shadow nsuig 
slow 
Of what his Italy would fancy meet 
To be called Brutus, straight his plas- 
tic hand 
Fell back before his prophet soul, and 
left 
A fragment ... a maimed Brutus, — 
but more grand 
Than this so named of Rome, was ! 

Let thy weft 
Present one woof and warp, Maz- 
zini ! — stand 
With no man hankering for a dagger's 
heft,— 
No, not for Italy ! — nor .stand apart. 
No, not for the republic I — from those 
pure 
Brave men who hold the level of thy 
heart 
In patriot truth, as lover and as doer. 
Albeit they will not follow where thou 
art 
As extreme theorist. Trust and distrust 
fewer ; 
And so bind strong and keep unstained 
the cnuse 
Which (God's sign granted,) war-trumps 
newly blown 
Shall yet annunciate to the world's 
applause. 



But now, the world is busy ; it ti.as 
grown 
A Fair-going world. Imperial Eng- 
land draws 
The flowing ends of the earth, from 
Fez, Canton, 
Delhi and Stockholm, Athens and 
Madrid, 
The Russias and the vast Americas, 
As if a queen drew in her robes 
amid 
Her golden cincture, — isles peninsulas. 
Capes, continents, far inland coun- 
tries hid 



age 



CASA GUIDI ]VI>!DO\VS. 



liy jasper-Mnds and hilh of chrysopras, 
\\\ trailing in their splendours through 
the doo 
Of the gorgeous Crystal Palace. Every 
'• nation, 

To every other nation strange of yore. 
Gives face to face the civic salutation. 
And holds up in a proud right hand 
before 
That congress, the best work which she 
can fashion 
By her best means — ' These corals, 
will you please 
To match against your oaks ? They 
grow as last 
Within my wilderness of purple 
seas. — 
' This diamond stared upon me as I 
pxssed 
(As a live god's eye from a marble 
frieze) 
Along a dark of diamonds. Is it 
classed ''. ' — 
' 1 wove these stuffs so subtly that the 
gold 
Swims to the surface of the silk like 
cream, 
And curdles to fair patterns. Vc be- 
hold ! '- 
'These delic.test muslins rather seem 
Than be, you think? Nay, touch 
, them and be bold. 

Though such veiled Chakhi's face in 
Hafiz ' dream.' — 
' I'hese carpets — you walk slow on 
them like kings. 
Inaudible like spirits, while your foot 
Dips deep in velvet roses and such 
things.'— 
'Even ApoUonius might commend this 
flute. "= 
The music winding through the stops, 
upsprings 
To make the player very rich. Com- 
pute.' — 
Here's goblet-glass, to take in with 
your wine 



• Philostrullis relates of Ai>uIloiiiuB that lie 
obJi!rti!iI to till! niiuical liistriiment of Linus 
thu IllicitUaii, il8 iiir-ompetclice to enrich aiil 
beHUtlly. The hintory ol muaiu iu our da.v, 
woilM, wpoii tlie lornier point, eufUcieutly 
coniuto tlis plillosopher. 



The very sun iLs grapes were ripened 
under. 
Drink light and juice together, and 
each flue.' — 
'This model of a steamship moves your 
wonder ? 
You should behold it crushing down 
the brine. 
Like a blind Jove who feels his way 
with thunder.' — 
' Here's sculpture ! Ah, luc live too ! 
Why not throw 
Our life into our marbles ! Art has 
place 
For other artists after Angelo.' 
' I tried to paint out here a natural face — 
For nature includes Raffael, as we 
know, 
Not Raffael nature. Will it help my 
case V — 
' Methinks you will not match this 
steel of ours !' — 
' Nor you this porcelain ! One might 
dream the clay 
Retained in it the larva; of the 
flowers. 
They bud so, round the cup, the old 
spring way.'— 
' Nor you these carven wood.=, where 
birds in bowers 
With twisting snakes and climbing cu- 
pids, play.' 



O Magi of the east and of the west,- 
Your incense, gold, and myrrh are 
excellent. — 
What gifts for Christ, then, bring ye 
with the rest ? 
Your hands have worked well. Is your 
courage spent 
In handwork only ? Have you iiothinrj 
best. 
Which generous souls may perfect and 
present. 
And He shall thank the givers for t 
No light 
Of teaching, liberal nations, for the poor. 
Who sit iu darkness when it is not 
night ? 
No cure for wicked children ? Christ. 
— no cure I 



CAS A CUIDI WINDOWS. ay. 


No help for women sobbing out of 


Since every victim-carrion turns to 


sight 


use. 


Beca He men made the laws ? No 


And drives a chariot, like a god m.-idc 


brothel-lure 


wroth. 


Burnt out by popular lightnings ? — 


Aganist each piled injustice. Ay, 


Hast thou found 


the least 


No remedy, my England, for such woes ? 


Dead for Italia, not in vain has died, 


No outlet, Austria, for the scourged 


I'hough many vainly, ere life's strug- 


.nnd bound, 


gle ceased. 


No entrance for the exiled? No rc- 


To mad dissimilar ends have swerved 


pose. 


aside. 


Russia, for knouted Poles worked 


Each grave her nationality has pierced 


underground. 


By its own noble breadth, and fortified, 


And gentle ladies bleached among the 


And pinned it deeper to the soil. For- 


snows ? — 


lorn 


No mercy for the slave, America ? — 


Of thanks, be, therefore, no one of these 


No hope for Rome, free France, chival- 


graves 1 


ric France ? — 


Not hers, — who, at her husband's side. 


Alas, great nations have great shames. 


in scorn. 


I say. 


Outfaced the whistling shot and hissing 


No pity, world, no tender utterance 


waves. 


Of benediction, and prayers stretched 


Until she felt her little babe unborn 


this way 


Recoil, within her, from the v.uient 


For poor Italia baffled by mischance ? — 


staves 


gracioiB nations, give some ear to 


And bloodhounds of the world, : at 


me ! 


which, her life 


You all go to your Fair, and I am one 


Dropt inward from her eyes and follow- 


Who at the roadside of humanity 


ed it 


Beseech your alms, — God'sjustice to be 


Beyond the hunters. Garibakl- -^ wife 


done. 


And child died so. And nov.-. trc sea- 


So, prosper ! 


weeds fit 




Her body like a proper shroud and 


XXII. 


-c 

coif. 


In the name of Italy. 


And murmuroujjy the ebbing v/aters grit 


Meantime, her patriot dead have beni- 


The little pebbles while =,li^- l.cs in- 


zon ! 


terred 


They only have done well ; and what 


In the sea-sand. Perhaps, ere frying 


they did 


thus. 


Being perfect, it shall triumpli. Let 


She looked up in his face which never 


them slumber 


stirred 


No king of Egypt in a pyramid 


From its clenched anguish, as to make 


Is safer from oblivion, though he num- 


excui^e 


ber 


For leaving him for his, if so shei.'fed. 


Full seventy cerements for a coverlid. 


Well he remembers that she coul'i not 


These Dead be seeds of life, and shall 


choose. 


encumber 


A memorable grave I Another is 


The sad heart of the land until it 


At Genoa. There a king may fitly lie. 


loose 


Who bursting that heroic heart of his 


The clammy clods and let out the spring- 


At lost Novara, that he could not die. 


growth 


Though thrice into the cannon's eyes 


In beatific green through every bruise. 


for this 


The tyrant should take heed to what he 


He plunged his shuddering steed, and 


doth, 


felt the sky 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Reel back between the fire-shocks ; — 
stripped away 
The ancestral ermine ere the smoke had 
cleared, 
And naked to the soul, that none 
might say 
His kmgship covered what was base and 
bleared 
With treason, went out straight, an 
exile, yea. 
An exiled patriot ! Let him be revered. 

xxm. 
Yea, verily, Cliarles Albert has died 
well : 
And if he lived not all so, as one spoke. 
The sin pass softly with the passing 
bell. 
For he was shriven, I think, in cannon 
smoke. 
And takinc; otT his crown, made visible 
A hero's forehead. Shaking Austria's 
yoke 
He shattered his own hand and heart. 
' So best,' 
His 1,1st words were upon hislonely bed, 
' I do not end like popes and dukes at 
least — 
Thank GoJ for it.' And now that he is 
dead. 
Admitting it is proved and manifest 
That he was worthy, with a discrowned 
head. 
To measure heights \}\\\\ patriots, let 
them stand 
Beside the man in his Oporto shroud, 
And eacli vouchsafe to take him by 
the hand. 
And kiss him on the cheek, and say 
aloud. 
Thou, too, hast suffered for our native 
land! 
' My brother, thou art one of us. Be 
proud.' 

XXIV. 
Still, graves, when Italy is talked 
vipon ! 
Still, still, the patriot's tomb, the stran- 
ger's hate. 
Still Ninbe ! still fainting in the sun 
By whose most dazzling arrows violate 
Her beauteous offspring perished ! 
Has she won 



Nothing 'out garlands for the graves 
from Fate ''. 
Nothing but death-songs ? — Yet, be \\ 
understood. 
Life throbs in noble Piedmont ! while 
the feet 
Of Rome's clay image, dabbled soft 
in blood. 
Grow fat with dissolution, and, as meet, 
Will soon be shovelled off like other 
mud, • 
To leave the passage free in church and 
street. 
And I, who first look hope up in this 
song, 
Because a child was singing one. be- 
hold. 
The hope and omen were not, haply, 
wrong ! 
Poets are sooths.ayers still, like those of 
old 
Who studied flights of doves, — and 
creatures young 
And tender, mighty meanings, may un- 
fold. 

XXV. 

The sun strikes through the windows, 
up the floor : 
Stand out in it, my own young Floren- 
tme. 
Not two years old, and let me see 
thee more ! 
It grows along thy amber curls to shine 
Brighter I'.i.iu elsewhere. Now, look 
straight lefore. 
And fix thy brave blue English eyes on 
mine. 
And from tl.y 50ul, which fronts the 
future so, 
With iinab.a^hed and unabated gaze. 
Teach me to hope fof, what the An- 
gels know. 
When they smile clear as thou dost. 
Down God's ways. 
With just alighted feet between the 
snow 
And snowdrops, where a little lamb 
may gaze 
Ihou ha.st no fear, my lamb, about 
the road. 
Albeit in our vain-glory we assume 
That, less than we have, thou lia.st 
learnt of God. 




THE (JKY OF THE CHILDREN. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 



299 



Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet ! — 
thou, to whom 
The earhest world-day Ught that ever 
flowed. 
Through Casa Guidi windows, chanced 
to come ! 
Now shake the glittering nimbus of 
thy hair. 
And be God's witness — that the ele- 
mental 
New springs of life are gushing 
everywhere 
To cleanse the water courses, and pre- 
vent all 
Concrete obstructions which infest the 
air ! 
— That earth's alive, and gentle or un- 
gentle 
Motions within her, signify but 
growth : 
The ground swells greenest o'er the la- 
bouring moles. 
Howe'er the imeasy world is vexed 
and wroth, 
Young children, lifted high on parent 
souls. 
Look round them with a smile upon 
the mouth. 
And take for music every bell that 
tolls. 
Who said we should be better if like 
these ? 
And we sit murmuring for the future 
though 
Posterity is smiling on our knees. 
Convicting us of folly ? Let us go — 
We will trust God. The blank inter- 
stices 
Men take for ruins, He will build into 
With pillared marbles rare, or knit 
across 
With generous arches, till the fane's 
complete. 
This world has no perdition, if some 
loss. 

XXVI. 
Such cheer I gather from thy smiling 

Sweet ! 
The self same cherub faces which 
emboss 
The Vail, lean inward to the Mercy- 
icat. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 

fi' o/u./u.atTii', rfKfo. Medea. 

Do ye hear the children weeping, O 
my brothers. 
Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
They are leaning their young heads 
against their mothers, 
And t/iiii cannot stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the 
meadows : 
The young birds are chirping in their 
nest : 
The young fawns are playing with the 
shadows ; 
The young flowers are blowing to- 
ward the west — 
But the young, young children, O my 
brothers. 
They are weeping bitterly ! 
They are weeping in the playtime of 
the others, 
Li the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in 
the .sorrow. 
Why their tears are falling so ? 
The old man may weep for his to- 
morrow 
Which is lost in Long Ago — 
The old tree is leafless in the forest — 

The old year is ending in the frost — 
The old wound, if stricken, is the 
sorest — 
The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
But the young, young children, O my 
brothers. 
Do you ask them why they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
mothers. 
In our happy Fatherland ? 

They look up with their pale r.nd 
sunken faces. 
And their looks are sad to see. 
For the man's hoary anguish draws 
and presses 
Down the cheeks of infancy — 
' Your old earth,' they say, ' is very 
dreary ; 
Our young feet,' they say, ' are very 
weak 1 



300 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 


Few paces liave we taken, yet are 


Like our weeds anear the mine ? 


weary — 


Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- 


? Oiii grave-rest is very far to seek : 


shadows. 


Ask the aged why they weep, and not 


From your plea.sures fair and fine 1 


the children. 




For the outside earth is cold, 


■For oh,' .say the children, ' wc are 


And we youns ones stand without, in 


weary. 


our bewildering. 


And we cannot run or leap — 


And the graves are for the old : 


If we cared for any meadows, it were 




merely 


' True,' say tlic children, ' it may liap- 


To drop down in them ami sleep. 


pon 


Our knees tremble sorely in the stoop- 


That we die before our time : 


ing — 


Little Alice died last year — her grave 


We fall upon our faces, trying logo ; 


is shapeii 


And, underneath our iieavy eyelids 


Like a snowball, in the rime. 


drooping. 


We looked into the pit prepared to take 


The reddest flower would look a3 


her— 


pale as snow. 


Was no room for any work in the 


For, all day, we drag our burden tiring. 


close clay : 


Through the coal-dark underground. 


From the sleep wherein she lieth none 


Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 


will wake her 


In trie factories, round and round. 


Crying, • Get up, little Alice ! it is 




day.' 


' For, all day, the wheels are droning. 


If you listen by that grave, in sun and 


turning, — 


shower. 


Their wind comes in our fjces, — 


With your ear down, little Alice 


Till our hearts turn, — our heads, with 


never cries ! 


pulses burning. 


Could we see her face, be sure wc 


And the walls turn in their places — 


should not know her. 


Turns the sky in the high window bl.ank 


For the smile has time for growing in 


and reeling — 


her eyes. 


Turns the long light that drops 


And merry go her moments, lulled and 


adown the wall — 


-Stilled in 


Turn the black flies that crawl along the 


The shroud by the kirk-cliimc ! 


ceiling — 


It is good when it happens,' say the chil- 


All are turning, all the day, and we 


dren. 


with all ! 


'That we die before our time !' 


And all day the iron wheels .are dron- 


Alas, al.as, the children ! they are seek- 


ing : 


ing 


And sometimes we could pray. 


Death in life as best to have ! 


' O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad 


They are binding up their hearts away 


moaning.) 


from breaking, 


' Stop ! be silent for to-day 1' 


With a cerement from the grave. 




Go out, children, from the mine and 


Ay ! lie silent ! Let them hear e.ach 


from the city — 


other breathing 


Sing out, children, .as the little 


For a moment, mouth to mouth — 


thrushes do — 


Let them touch each other's hands, in a 


Pluck your handfiils of the meadow- 


fresh wreathing 


cowslips pretty — 


Of their tender human youth ! 


Laugh aloud, to feel your finger-; 


Let them ftrcl that this cold metaliic 


let them throngli 1 


motion 


But they answer, ' Arc your cowslips of 


Is not all the life God fashions or 


the meadows ' 


reveals— 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREiV. 



301 



Let them prove their living souls against 
the notion 
Tliat they Kve in you, or under you, 
O wheels !— 
Still, all day, the iron wheel.-; go onward. 

Grinding life down from its mark ; 
And the children's souls, which God is 
calling sunward. 
Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, O 
my brothers, 
To look up to Him and pray — 
So the blessed One who blesseth all the 
others. 
Will bless them another day. 
They answer, ' Who is God that He 
sliould hear us. 
While the rushing of the iron wheels 
is stirred ? 
When we sob aloud, the human crea- 
tures near us 
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not 
a word ! 
And lue hear not (for the wheels in their 
resounding) 
Strangers .speaking at the door : 
Is it likely God, with angels singing 
round Illm, 

Hears our weeping any more ? 
'Two words, indeed, of praying we re- 
member ; 
And at midnight's hour of harm, 
• Our Father,' looking upward in the 
chamber. 
We say softly for a charm.* 
We know no other words, except ' Our 
Father,' 
And wc think that, in some pause 
of angel's song. 
Cod may pluck them with the silence 
sweet to gather. 
And hold both within His right h.and 
which is strong. 
' Our Father !' If He heard us. He 
would surely 

• .\ l:u't ivii.len-il iiat:K-IICiiUy lustnnral hy 
r.I.-. nn:-ne's KL'])o;t of his commiMsinn. Tlie 
n line iif llie poet of '• OriDii " a:i,l •' Cosnin de' 

Lleiliri " has, Ii()\vl'\'l':', rt chuu;^e of associa- 
tidlis. Ill 1 . i 11 ^ i:i t::m! to rcminil 1110 (vvil'.i 

otlR'i- II I - iliatwe liiivo some 110- 

lilepi"-!: :■ I- 111 "urlilcv.alii -c.— thou::i 
o:)eil to I :• -I . I 1, .111 cortii!!! jioliits, of bu- 



■lli! ill 



litlli 



{For they call lum good and mild) 
Answer, smiling down t!i;; steep world 
very purely, 
' Come and rest with me, my child.' 

'But, no!' say the cliddrea, weeping 
fister, 
' He is .speechless as a stone ; 
And they tell us, of His image is t'.'e 
master 
Who commands us to work on. 
' Go to !' say the children— 'Up in Hea- 
ven, 
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds arc 
all we find : 
Do not mock us ; grief has made us un- 
believing, — 
We look up for God, but tears have 
made us bl.nd.' 
Do you hear the children weeping and 
disproving, 
O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
For God's possible is taught by His 
world's loving — 
And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before 
you ; 
They are weary ere they run ; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor 
the glory 
Which is brighter than the sun : 
They know the grief of man, without 
his wisdom ; 
They sink in man's despair, without 
its calm — 
Are slaves, without the liberty in Chris- 
tendom, 
Are martyrs, by the pang without 
the palm, — 
Are worn as if with age, yet un retriev- 
ing ly 
The harvest of its memories cannot 
reap, — 
Are orphans of the earthly love and 
heavenly : 
Let them weep ! let them weep ! 
They look up, with their pale and sunk- 
en faces, 
And their look is dread to .see. 
For tlicy mind you of their angels in 
high places. 
With eyes turned on Deity ; — 
'How long,' they .say, 'how long, O 
cruel nation. 



3oa 



NAPOLEON in. IN ITALY. 



Will you Stand, to move the world, 
on a child's heart, — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpi- 
tation. 

And tread onward to your throne 
amid the mart ? 



Our blood splashes upward, O gold- 

heaper. 

And your purple shows your path ; 

Cut the child's sob in the silence curses 

deeper 

Than the strong man in his wrath !' 



NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 



[These poems were written under the pressure of the events they fndicate, after a residence 
in Italy of so many years, that the present triniupU of great principles is iieiglitened to tii(? 
writei'8 feeliti;;s by tlie disastrous issue of tlie last movement, witnessed troiu *' C'iisa Guidi 
windows " iu Isja. W-t, il the verses should appear tuEuslish reaileis Ino pnnttently lendeieil 



to adinlt • 
groands. 

hen.i.-.ni 



th> 



;spect to till 
iiud of mv attachm. 
l.ju. Wliat 1 have ' 
•• more than I'lato 



of thiuKS, I will not exi use invself no siuli 
nt to the Italian people, and my admiiulion ol llieir 
ritten tias simply been written liecause 1 lovetuitli 
' and Plato's ccnmtry, more than Dante and Dante s 



couiiti>. mit.L-(\L-ii Iban Miakespeaie and Shal(es[)eare.'s country. 

And il i>.ii.iuiism njeaiia tite liattery of one's nation m every case, then the patriot, tal<e it as 
you please, is meiely a couiiier, wJiicli I am not, toougli I have wtittcn •* Napoleon iif.ln Italy." 
It is lime to limit t.ie 8i;,-niBcance of certain terms, or to enlarge the siKUiMcance of ceitaiu 
things. Nationality is e.tcellent in its place ; and the instinct of self love is the n*? of a man. 
wiiich will develop into sacrificial virtues, liut all the virtues are means and uses : un<i, if we 
liinder their teuilency to KrowtU an \ ex|)an8iim, we both destroy them as viitnes. and de^tade 
them to that rankest species of corruption leseived for the most noble orsanizaticns. For iu- 
Btauce. nou iutei'vention in the aDalis ol neighboring? states is a hi;;li political viitue ; hnt noii- 
interventiiiu does not mean, passinif bv <ui the other side when your nei^chl.or falls amoiit: 
thieves.—or I'hariseelsin would recover it Irom Christianity. F.eedom itself is viitue. as well 
as privile^"<; bat Ireedoin of the seas does not mean pira-cy, nor freedom of the land ljri);auilaf;e ; 
nor Ireedoni of the senate, freedom to cudKel a disBiilent niendier, nor freedom o the pi ess. lite- 
dom to calumniate and lie. 80, if patriotism be a virtue indeed, it cannot mean an exclusive 
devotion to one's country's interest. — 'or that is only another form of devoiion to peisonai in- 
terests. 01 family interests or pi-ovinciai interests, all of which, \ not driven past themselves, 
are vuUar and immoral objects. Let us put away the little Pedlincrtonism unworthy of a great 
nation, an I too pi'evalent among ns. If the man who does not look beyond this natural life is 
of a somewhat narrow order, what must be the man who does not look beyond liis own Irontier 
or Ids own sea'.' 

I coniess ihal r dream of the dav when an Eu„-li»h statesman shall arise with a h.ai ( (..., hn i;o 
for Khgl.iu I. bavin,- courage, iu the lace o; liis cciumIh nu-u . to assert of Some sug -■ -li\, |.,,|i, \, 
— ■■ This is -.,,id Inr your trade ; this is nec-ssai v lor vour domination ; but it wi.l \ • \ ,1 \-;-\Aki 
hard bv ; it will hurt apeople farlhero'f; it will 111. .ftt iiotliiii- to the general buiiiaiiiiy . ih, ic- 
fore. away with it !— II is not lor you or for me." When a Biitish minister dares to K|ieak so, 
and when a H itish public applauds him speaking, then shall lhen,atlnii be so glorious, that her 
praise, instead ol ex|>h.diugl. 0111 within, from loud civic mouths, shall come to her Irom with- 
out, as all worthy praise must' from ttie alliances she has fostered, and irom the jiopiilations 
•he lias saved. 

And poets, who write of the events of that time, shall not need to justify tliemselves in 
preiaces, lor ever bt little jarring of the national sentiment imputable to tlieir riiymes. 

Koai:, fcjiuMi-u, IsGO-J 



Emperor, Emperor ! 
From the centre to t!)c shore, 
I'Voni the Seine back to the Rhine, 
Stood eight millions up and swore, 
By their manhood's right divine 
bo to elect and legislate. 



This man should renew the line 

lirokcn in a strain of fate 

And leagued kings at Waterloo, 

When the pcoule's hands let go. 

Kmpcror 

Evermore. 



NAPOLEON III. IX ITALY. 



303 



With a universal shout 
They took the old regalia out 
From aa open grave that day ; 
From a grave that would not close,. 
Where the first Napoleon lay 

Expectant, in repose, 
. As still as Merlin, with his conquering 
'j face, 

(Turned up in its unquenchable appeal 
To men and heroes of the' advancing 
race, 
Prepared to set the seal 
Of what has been on what shall be. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 



The thinkers stood aside 
To let the nation act. 
Some hated the new constituted fact 
Of empire, as pride treading on their 

pride. 
Some quailed, lest what was poisonous 

in the past 
Should graft itself in that Druidic bough 
On this green now. 
Some cursed, because at last 
The open heavens to which they had 

look'd in vain 
For many a golden fall of marvellous 
rain 
Were closed in brass ; and some 
Wept on because a gone thing could 

not come ; 
And some were silent, doubting .all things 

for 
That popular conviction — evermore 
Emperor. 



That day I did not hate 
Nor doubt, nor quail, nor curse. 
I I, reverencing the people, did not bate 
My reverence of their deed and oracle, 
I Nor vainly prate 

Of better and of worse 
Against the great conclusion of their will. 

And yet, O voice and verse. 
Which God set in me to acclaim and 

sing 
Conviction, exaltation, aspiration. 
We gave no music to the patent thing. 



Nor spared a holy rhythm to throb and 
swim 
About the name of him 
Translated to the sphere of domination 
l;y democratic passion ! 
I was not used, at least. 
Nor can be, now or then. 
To stroke the ermine beast 
On any kind of throne, 
(Though builded by a nation for it« 

own,) 
And swell the surging choir for kings of 
men — 
' Emperor 
Evermore.' 

V. 

But now. Napoleon, now 
That, leaving far behind the purple 

throng 
Of vulgar monarchs, thou 
Tread'st higher in thy deed 
Than stair of throne can lead 
To help in the hour of wrong 
The broken hearts of nations to be 

strong. — 
Now, lifted as thou art 
To the level of pure song. 
We stand to meet thee on these Alpine 

snows ! 
And while the palpitating peaks break 

out 
Ecstatic from somnambular repose 
With answers to the presence and the 

shout, 
Wc, poets of the people, who take part 
Witli elemental justice, natural right. 
Join in our echoes also, nor refrain. 
We meet thee, O Napoleon, at this 

height 
At last, and find thee great enough to 

praise. 
Receive the poet's chrism, which smells 

beyond 
The priest's, and pass thy ways ; — 
An English poet warns thee to maintain 
God's word, not England's : — let His 

truth be true 
And all men liars ! with His truth re- 
spond 
To all men's lie. Exalt the sword and 

smite 
On that long anvil of the Apennlne 
Where Austria forged the Italian chain 

in view 



yn 



NAPOLEON IN ITALY. 



Of seven consenting nations, sparks of 
fine 
Admonitory light, 
Till men'-: eyes wink before convictions 

new. 
Flash ni God's justice to the world's 

amaze, 
Sublime Deliverer ! — after many days 
Found worthy of the deed thou art come 
to do — 
Emperor 
Evermore. 



But Italy, my Italy 

Can it last, this gleam ? 

Can she live and be strong. 

Or is it another dream 

Like the rest we have dreamed so long? 

And shaU it, must it be. 
That after the battle-cloud has broken 
She will die off again 
Like the rain. 
Or like a poet's song 
Sung of her, sad at the end 
Because her name is Italy — 
Die and count no friend ? 
It is true —may it be spoken. 
That she who has lam so still. 
With a wound in her breast. 
And a (lower in her hand, 
And a gravestone under her head. 
While every nation at will 
Beside her has dared to stand 
And flout her with pity and scorn. 
Saying, 'She is at rest. 
She is fair, she is dead. 
And, leaving room in her stead 
To Us who are later born. 
This is certainly best !' 
Saying, ' Alas, she is fair. 
Very fair, but dead. 
And so we have room for the race.' 
— Can it be true, be true. 
That she lives anew ? 
That she rises up at the shout of her sons. 
At t^ie trumpet of France, 
And lives anew? — is it true 
That she has not moved in a trance, 
As in Forty-eight ? 

When her eyes were troubled with blood 
Till she knew not friend from foe. 
Till her hand was caught in a strait 
Of her cerement and baffled so 



From doing the deed she would ; 
And her weak foot stumbled across 
'The grave of a king, " 
And down .she dropt at heavy loss, 
And.vve gloomily covered her face and 

said, 
' We have dreamed the thing ; 
She is not alive, but dead.' 



Now, shall wc «.ay 

(Jur Italy lives indeed? 

And if It were not for the beat and bray 

Of drum and trump of martial men. 

Should we feel the underground heave 

and strain. 
Where heroes left their dust as a seed 

Sure to emerge one day ? 
And it it were not for the rhythmic march 
Of France and Piedmont's double hosts. 

Should we hear the ghosts 
Thrill through ruined aisle and arch. 
Throb along the frescoed wall. 
Whisper an oath by that divine 
They left in picture, book and stone 
That Italy is not dead at all ? 
Ay, if it were not for the tears in our eyes 
These tears of a sudden passionate joy 

Shojld we see her arise 
From the place were the wicked are 
overthrown, 

Italy, Italy ! loosed at length 

From the tyrant's thrall. 
Pale and calm in her strength ? 
Pale as the silver cross of Savoy 
When the hand that bears the flag is 

brave. 
And not a breath is stirring, save 

What is blown 
Over the war-trump's lip of brass. 
Ere Garibaldi forces the pass'. 



Ay, it is so, even so. 

Ay, and it shall be so. 
Each broken stone that long ago 
She flung behind her as she went 
In discouragement and bewilderment 
Through the cairns of Time, and missed 
her way 

Between to-day and yesterday. 

Up springs a living man. 
And each man stands with his face in 
the light 



NAPOLEO.X I-V ITALY. 



303 



Of his own drawn sword. 
Ready to do what a hero can. 
Wall to sa;j, or river to ford. 
Cannon to front, or foe to pursue, 
Still ready to do, and sworn to be true 

As a man and patriot can. 
Piedmontese, Neapolitan, 
Lombard, Tuscan, Romagnole, 
Each man's body having a soul, — 
Count how many they stand. 
All of them sons of the land, 
Every live man there 
Allied to a dead man below. 
And the deadest with blood to spare 
To quicken a living hand 
In case it should ever be slow. 
Count how many they come 
To beat the Piedmont's drum. 
With faces keener and grayer 
Tiiaii swords of the Austrian slayer, 
All set against the foe. 
'Emperor 
Evermore.' 



Out of the dust where they ground 

them. 
Out of the. holes where they dogged 

them. 
Out of the hulks where they wound 

them 
In iron, tortured and flogged I hem ; 
Out of the streets where they chased 

them, 
Taxed them and then bayoneted 

them, — 
Out of the homes, where they spied on 

them, 
(Using their daughters and wives.) 
Out of the church where they fretted 

them. 
Rotted their souls and debased them. 
Trained them to answer with knives. 
Then cursed them all at their 

prayers ! — 
Out of cold land !, not theirs. 
Where they exiled them, starved them, 

lied oa them ; 
Back they come like a wind, in vain 
Cramped up in the hills, that roars its 

road 
The stronger into the open plain ; 
Or like a fire that burns the hotter 
And longer for the crust of cinder, 



Serving better the ends of the plotter ; 
Or like a restrained word of God, 
Fulfilling itself by what seems to hinder 

' Emperor 

Evermore.' 



Shout for France and Savoy ! 
Shout for the helper and doer. 
Shout for the good sword's rmg. 
Shout for the thought still truer. 
Shout for the spirits at large 
Who passed for the dead this spring. 
Whose living glory is sure. 
Shout for France and Savoy ! 
Shout for the council and charge ! 
Shout for the head of Cavour ; 
And shout for the heart of a King 
That's gre-'t with a nation's joy. 
Shout for France and Savoy ! 



Take up the child, MacMahon, tliough 

Thy hand be red 

From Magenta's dead, 

And riding on, in front of the troop, 

In the dust of the whirlwind of war 
Through the gate of the city of Milan, 

stoop 
And take up the child to thy .saddle- 
bow. 
Nor fe.ar the touch as soft as a flower 

Of his smile as clear as a star ! 
Thou hast a right to the child, we say. 
Since the women are weeping for joy 

as those 
Who, by thy help and from this day. 

Shall be happy mothers indeed. 
They are raining flowers from terrace 
and roof : 
Take up the flower in the child. 
While the shout goes up of a nation 
freed 
And heroically self-reconciled, 
Till the snow on that peaked ."Mp aloof 
Starts, as feeliag God's finger anew. 
And all those cold white marble fires 
Of mounting saints on the Duomo spires 
Flicker against the Blue. 
' Emperor 
Evermore.' 

xil. 
Ay, it is He, 
Who rides at the King's right hand ! 



3o<5 



NAPOLEON IN ITALY. 



Leave room for his liorse and draw to 

the side, 
Nor press too near in"-the ecstasy 
t)f a newly delivered impassioned land. 

He is moved, you see. 
He who has done it all. 
They call it a cold stern face ; 

But this is Italy 
Who rises up to her place ! — 
For this he fought in his youth. 
Of this he dreamed in the past ; 
Ihe lines of the resolute mouth 
Tremble a little at last. 
Cry, he has done it all ! 

' Emperor 

Evermore.' 

XIII. 

It is not strange that he did it, 
Though the deed may .■seem to strain 
To the wonderful, unpermitted. 
For such as lead and reign. 
But he is strange, this man : 
The people's instinct found him 
(A wind in the dark that ran 
Through a chink where was no door). 
And elected him and crowned him 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

XIV. 

Autocrat ! let them scoff. 

Who fail to comprehend 
That a ruler incarnate of 

The people must transcend 
All common king-born kings. 
These subterranean springs 
A sudden outlet winning. 
Have special virtues to spend. 
Ttie people's blood through him. 
Dilates from head to foot. 
Creates him absolute, 
And from this great beginning 
Evokes a greater end 
To justify and renew him — 
Emperor 
Evermore 



What ! did any maintain 

That God or the people {think !) 

Could make a marvel in vain ? — 



Out of the water-jar there. 

Draw wine that none could drink ? 

Istliis a man like the rest. 

This miracle made unaware 

By a rapture of popular air. 

And caught to the place that wa.sbest? 

You think he could barter and cheat 

As vulgar diplomats use. 

With the people's heart in his breast? 

Prate a lie into shape 

Lest truth should cumber the road ; 

Play at the fast and loose 

Till the world is strangled with tape ; 

Maim the soul's complete 

To fit the hole of a toad : 

And filch the dogman's meat 

To feed the offspring of God ? 



Nay, but he, this vifonder. 

He cannot palter nor prate. 

Though many around him and under. 

With intellects trained to the curve. 

Distrust him in spirit and nerve 

Because his meaning is straight. 

Measure him ere he depart 

With those who have governed and led ; 

Larger so much by the heart. 

Larger so much by the head. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 



He holds that, consenting or dissident. 
Nations must move with the time ; 

Assumes that crime with a precedent 
Doubles the guilt of the crime : 

— Denies that a slaver's bond 
Or a treaty signed by knaves, 

[Quoriiiii magna J>ars and beyond 

Was one of an honest name) 

Gives an inexpugnable claim 

lo abolishing men into slaves. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

XVIII. 

He will not sw.agger nor boast 
Of hiscountry's meeds, in a tone 

Missuiting a great man most 

If such should speak of his own : 

Nor will he act, on her side. 



THE DANCE. 



307 



Fitm motives baser, indeed, 
Than a \nan of a noble pride 

Can avow for himself at need ; 
Never, for lucre or laurels. 

Or custom, though such should h' 
rife. 
Adapting the smaller morals 

To measure the larger life. 
' He, though the merchants persuade, 

And the soldiers are eager for strife. 
Finds not his country in quarrels 

Only to find her in trade, — 
While still he accords her such honor 

As never to flinch for her sake 
Where men put service upon her, 

Found heavy to undertake 
And scarcely like to be paid : 

Believing a nation may act 
Unselfishly — shiver a lance 
(As the least of her sons may, in fact) 

And not for a cause of finance. 
Emperor 
Evermore, 



Great is he 
Who uses his greatness for all. 
His name shall stand perpetually 

As a name to applaud and cherish, 
Not only within the civic wall 
For the loyal, but also without 

For the generous and free. 

Just is he. 
Who is just for the popular due 

As well as the private debt. 
The praise of nations ready to perish 

Fall on him, — crown him in view 
Of tyrants caught in the net. 
And statesmen dizzy with fear and 

doubt ! 
And though, because they are many, 

And he is merely one, 
And nations selfish and cruel 
Heap up the inquisitor's fuel 
To kill the body of high intents. 
And burn great deeds from their place, 
Till this, the greatest of any, 
May seem imperfectly done ; 
Cour.age, whoever circumvents 1 
Courage, courage, whoever is base ! 
The soul of a high intent, be it known, 
Can die no more than any soul 



Which God keeps by him under the 

throne ; 
And this, at whatever interim, 
Shall live, and be consummated 
In the being of deeds made whole. 
Courage, courage ! happy is he, 
Of whom jhimself among the dead 
And silent,) this word shall be said ; 
— I'hat he might have had the world 

with him. 
But chose to side with suffering men. 
And had the world against him when 
He came to deliver Italy. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 



THE DANCE. 



You remember down at Florence our 
Cascine, 
Where the people on the feast-days 
walk and drive, 
And through the trees, long-drawn in 
many a green way. 
O'er roofing hum and murmur like a 

hive. 
The rivers and mountains look alive ? 



You remember the piazzone there, the 
stand-place 
Of carriages a-brim with Florence 
Beauties, 
Who lean and melt to music as the band 
plays. 
Or smile and chat with some one who 

afoot is. 
Or on horseback, in observance of 
male duties ? 



'Tis so pretty, in the afternoons of sum- 
mer. 
So many gracious faces brought to- 
gether I 

Call it rout, or call it concert, they have 
come here, 



3o8 



THE DANCE. 



In the floating of the fan and of the 

featlier, 
To reciprocate with beauty the fine 
weather. 



While the flower-girls offer nosegays 
(because they too 
Go with other sweets) at every car- 
riage-door ; 
Here, by shake of a white finger, signed 
away to 
Some next buyer, who sits buying 

score on score. 
Piling i-oses upon roses evermore. 



And last season, when the French camp 
had its station 

In the meadow -ground, things quick- 
ened and grew gayer 
Through the mingling of the liberating 
nation 

With this people ; groups of French- 
men everywhere, 

Strolling, gazing, judging lightly, . . 
• who was fair. ' 



Then the noblest lady present took upon 
her 

To speak nobly from her carriage for 
the rest ; 
'Pray these officers from France to do 
us honor 

By dancing with us straightway.' — • 
The request 

Was gravely apprehended as ad- 
dressed. 



And the men of France, bareheaded, 
bowing lowly, 
Led out each a proud signora to the 
space 
Which the startled crowd had rounded 
for them — slowly, 
JiLst a touch of still emotion in his 

face. 
Not presuming, through the symbol, 
on the grace. 



There was silence in tlie people : some 

lips trembled, 
But none jested. Broke the music at 

a glance : 
And the daughters of our princes, thus 

assembled. 
Stepped the measure with the gallant 

sons of France, 
Hush! it might have been a Mass, 

and not .t dance. 



And they danced there till the blue that 
overskied us 

Swooned with passion, though the 
footing seemed sedate ; 
And the mountains, heaving mighty 
hearts beside us, 

Sighed a rapture in a shadow, to dil- 
ate, 

And touched the holy stone where 
Dante sate. 

X. 
Then the sons of France, bareheaded, 
lowly bowing. 
Led the ladies back where kinsmen of 
the south 
Stood, received them ; — till, with burst 
of overflowing 
Feeling . . . husbands, brothers, Flor- 
ence's male youth. 
Turned, and kissed the martial stran- 
gers mouth to mouth. 



And a Cry went up, a cry from all that 
people I 
— You have heard a people cheering 
you suppose, 
For the Member, mayor . . . with chorus 
from the steeple? 
This was different ; scarce as loud 

perhaps, (who knows ?) 
For We saw wet eyes around us ere 
the close. 

XI t. 
And we felt as if a nation, too long borne 
in 
By hard wrongers, comprehending in 
such attitude 



A TALE OF VILLA FKAXCA. 



30J 



That God had spoken somewhere since 

the morning. 
That men were somehow brothers, by 

no platitude, 
Cried exnitant in great wonder and 

free gratitude. 



A TALE OF VILLAFRANCA. 



TOLD IN TUSGANV. 



My little son, my Florentine, 
Sit down beside my knee. 

And I will tell you why the sign 
Of joy which flushed our Italy, 

Has faded since but yesternight ; 

And why your Florence of delight 
Is mourning as you see. 



A great man (who was crowned one day) 

Imagined a great Deed : 
He shaped it out of cloud and clay, 
He touched it finely till the seed 
Possessed the flower ". from heart and 

brain 
He fed it with large thoughts humane, 
To help a people's need. 



He brought it out into the sun— 
They blessed it to his face : 

' O great pure Deed, that hast imdone 
So many bad and hase ! 

O generous Deed, heroic Deed, 

Come forth, be perfected, succeed. 
Deliver by God's grace.' 



Then sovereigns, statesmen, north and 
south. 

Rose up in wrath and fear. 
And cried, protesting by one mouth, 

• What monster have we here ? 
A great Deed at this hour of day ? 
A great just Deed — and not for pay ? 

Absurd, — or insincere. 



' And if sincere, the heavier blow 
In that case we shall bear, 

For where's our blessed " status quo,' 
Our holy treaties, where,— 

Our rights to sell a race, or buy, 

Protect and pillage, occupy, 
And civilize despair ?' 



Some muttered that the great Deed 
meant 

A great pretext to sin ; 
And others, the pretext, so lent. 

Was heinous (to begin). 
Volcanic terms of 'great' and 'justt' • 
Admit such tongues of flame, the crust 

Of time and law falls in. 



A great Deed in this world of ours ? 

Unheard of the pretence is : 
It threatens plainly the great powers • 

Is fatal in all senses. 
A just deed in the world 1 — call out 
The rifles ! be not slack about 

The national defences. 

VIII. 
And many murmured, ' From this source 

What red blood must be poured !' 
And some rejoined, ' 'Tis even worse ; 

What red tape is ignored 1' 
All cursed the Doer for an evil 
Called here, enlarging on the Devil,— 

There, monkeying the Lord ! 



Some said, it could not be explained. 
Some, could not be excused ; 

And others, ' Leave it unrestrained, 
Gehenna's self .s loosed,' 

And all cried, ' Crush it, maim it, frig i 

Set dog-toothed lies to tear it raj^ed, 
Truncated and traduced t' 



But He stood sad before the sun. 

(The peoples felt their fate). 
'The world is many, — I am one ; 

My great Deed was too great. 



370 



A TALK OF VILLA FKAXCA. 



God's fruit of justice ripens slow : 
Men's souls are narrow ; let them grow. 
My brothers, we must wait.' 



The tale is ended, child of mine, 
Turned graver at my knee. 

They say your eyes, my Florentine, 
Are English : it may be : 

And yet I've marked as blue a pair 

Following the doves across the square 
At Venice by the sea. 



Ah, child 1 ah, child ! I cannot say 
A word more. You conceive 

The reason now, why just to-day 
We see our Florence grieve. 

Ah, child, look up into the sky I 

In this low world, where great Deeds 
die. 
What matter if we live ? 



AN AUGUST VOICE. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

I made the treaty upon it. 
Just venture a quiet duke, 

Dall' Ongaro write him a sonnet ; 
Ricasoli gently explam 

Some need of the constitution : 
He'll swear to it over again, 

Providing an ' easy solution.' 
You'll call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

I promised the Emperor Francis 
To argue the case by his book. 

And ask you to meet his advances. 
The ducal cause, we know, 

(Whether you or he be the wronger) 
Has very strong points : — although 

Your bayonets there have stronger. 
You'll call backthe Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

He is not pure altogether. 
For instance, the oath which lie took 

(In the Forty -eight rough weather, 
He'd 'nail your fla:' to his mast,' 

Then softly scuttled the boat you 
Hoped to escape in at last. 

And both by a ' Proprio motu.' 
You'll call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

The scheme meets nothing to shock it 
In this smart letter, look. 

We found in Radetsky's pocket ; 
Where his Highness in sprightly style 

Of the flower of his Tuscans wrote, 
' These heads be the hottest in file : 

Pray shoot them the quickest. ' Quote, 
And call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

There are some things to object to. 
He cheated, betrayed, and forsook. 

Then called in the foe to protect you. 
He ta.\ed you for wines and for meats 

Throughout that eight years' pastime 
Of Austria's drum in yoiir> streets — 

Of course you remember the last time 
You called back your Grand Duke. 



You'll take back the Grand Duke ? 

It is not race he is poor in, 
Althou.gh he never could brook 

The patriot cousin at Turin. 
His love of kin you discern. 

By his hate of your flag and me— 
So decidedly apt to turn 

All colors at sight of the Three.* 
You'll call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Graml Duke ? 
'Twas weak that he fled frmu l!ie 
Pitti. 
But consider how little he shook 



CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 



At thought of bombarding youi' city I 
And, balancing that with this, 

The Christian rule is plain for ns ; 
. . Or the Holy p'ather's Swiss 

Have shot his Perngians in vain for us. 
Yoii'U call back the Grand Duke. 



Pray take back yonr Grand Duke, 

— I, loo, have suffered : ersuasion. 
All Europe, raven and rook, 

Screeched at me armed for your na- 
tion. 
Your cause in any Iieart struck spurs ; 

I swept such warnings aside for you. 
My very child's eyes, and Hers, 

Grew like my brother's who died for 
you. 
You'll call back the Grand Duke ? 

IX. 

You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

My French fought nobly with rea- 
son — 
Left many a Lombardy nook 
■ Red as with wine out of season. 
Little we grudged what was done there. 

Paid freelv your ransom of blood 
Our heroes stark in the sun there. 

We would not recall if we could. 
You'll call back the Grand Duke \ 



You'll take back your Grand Duke 1 

His son rode fast as he got off 
That day on the enemy's hook. 

When / had an epaulette shot off. 
Though splashed las I saw him afar, no, 

Near) by those ghastly rains. 
The mark, when you've washed him in 
A mo. 

Will scarcely be larger than Cain's. 
You'll call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

'Twill be so simple, quite beautifid : 
The shepherd recovers his crook, 

. . If you should be sheep and dutiful. 
I spoke a word worth chalkmg 

On .Milan's wall— but stay, 
Here's Poniatowsky talking. — 

You'll listen to ///;;/ to-day. 
And call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

Observe, there's no one to force it, — 
Unless the Madonna, St. Luke 

Drew for you, choose to endorse it. 
I charge you by St. Martino 

And prodigies quickened by wrong. 
Remember your dead on Ticino ; 

Be wortliy, be constant, be strong. 
—Bah !— call back the Grand Duke ! I 



CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 

Gregory Nazianzkn. 



The Pope on Christmas day 

Sits in St. Peter's Chair ; 
But the people inurmur, and say, 

■ Our souls are sick and forlorn. 
And who will show us where 

Is the stable where Christ was born V 



The star is lost in the dark ? 

The manger is lost in the straw ; 
The Christ cries faintly . . hark ! 

Through bands that swaddle and 
strangle — 
But the Pope in the chair of awe 

Looks down the great quadrangle. 



Ti c magi kneel at his foot, 

Kings of the c:ist and west, 
But instead of the angels, (mute 

Is the ' Peace on earth' of their song,} 
Tlie peoiiles, perplexed and opprest. 

Are sighing, ' How Icng, how long V 



And, instead cf tlie kine, bewilder in 
Shadow of aisle and dome. 

The bear who tore up the children, 
"ll'C fo.\ who burnt up the com, 

And the wolf who suckled at Rome 
Brothei-s to siay and lo scorn. 



Cardinals left and-right of Inm, 
Worshippers round and beneath, 



312 



ITA/A- A.VJ) Tin: WORLD. 



The silver trumpets at sight of him 
Thnll with a mursical blast : 

But the people say through their teeth, 
' Trumpets ? we wait for the Last I' 



He sits in the place of the Lord, 
And aaks for the gifts of the time ? 

Gold, for the haft of a sword, 
To win back Romagna averse, 

Incense, to sweeten a crime, 
And myrrh, to embitter a curse. 



Then a king of the west said, ' Good !— ' 
I bring thee the gifts of the time ; 

Red, for the patriot's blood. 
Green, for the martyr's rrown. 

White, for the dew and the rime, 

Wlien the morning of God comes 
down.' 

VIII. 
— O mystic tricolor bright I 

The Pope's heart quailed like a man's. 
The cardinals froze at the sight. 

Bowing their tonsures hoary ; 
And the eyes of the peacock-farts 

Winki-d at the alien g'^ry. 



But the peoples cxi-laimed in hope, 
' Now blessed be he who has brought 

These gifts of the time to the Pope, 
When our souls were sick and forlorn. 

— And kere is the star we sought. 
To show us where Christ was born I' 



ITALY AND THE WORLD, 



Florbn'CE, Bologna, Parma, Modena, 
When you named them a year ago, 

So many graves reserved by God, n a 
Day of judgment, you seemed to 
know, 

To open and let out iho resurrection. 



And meantime (you made your reflec- 
tion 
If you were English) was naught to 
be done 
But sorting sables, in predilection 

For all those martyrs dead and gone, 
Till the new earth and heaven made 
ready. 



And if your politics were not heady. 
Violent, . . ' Good,' you added, ' good 

In all things I mourn on sure and steady. 
Churchyard thistles are wholesome 
. food 

For our European wandering asses, 



' The date of the resurrection p.lsses 
Human foreknowledge : men unborn 

Will gain by it, (even in the lower 
classes), 
But none of these. It is hot the morn 

Because the cock of France is crowing, 



' Cocks crow at midnight, seldom know- 
ing 
Starlight from dawn-light ; 'tis a mad 
Poor creature.' Here you pause by 
growing 
Scornful, . . suddenly, let us add. 
The trumphet sounded, the graves were 
open. 



Life and life and life ! agrope in 
The dusk of death, warm h.-xnds, 
stretched out 
For swords, proved more life still to 
hope in, 
Beyond and behind. Arise with a 
shout. 
Nation of Italy, slain and buried I 



Hill to hill and turret to turret 

Flashing the tricolor— newly created 

Beautiful Italy, c.ihn, unhurried. 
Rise heroic and renovated, 

Rise to the final restitution. 



ITALY AND THE WORLD. 



3>,1 



VIII. 

Rise ; prefigure the grand solution 

Of earth's municipal, insular schisms- 
Statesmen draping self-love's conclu- 
sion 
In cheap, vernacular patriotisms, 
Unable to give up Juds^a for Jesus. 

IX. 

Bring lis the higher example ; release 
us 

Into the larger coming time : 
And into Christ's broad garment piece ua 

Rags of virtue as poor as crime, 
National selfishness, civic vaunting. 



No more Jew or Greek then — taunting 
Nor taunted ; no more England nor 
France I 
But one confederate brotherhood, 
planting 
One flag only, to mark the advance, 
Onward and upward^ of all humanity. 



For fully developed Christianity 

Is civilization perfected. 
' Measure the frontier,' shall be said, 

' Count the ships,' in national vanity ? 
,— Count the nation's heart-beats sooner. 



For, though behind by a cannon or 
schooner, 
That nation still is predominant. 
Whose pulse beats quickest in zeal to 
oppugn or 
Succor another, in Wrong or want. 
Passing the frontier in love and abhor- 
rence. 

Xlll. 
Modena, Parma, Bologna, Florence, 

Open us o It the wider way ! 
Dwarf in that chapel of old St. Law- 
rence 
Your Michael Angelo's g ant Day, 
With the grandeur of this Day breaking 
o'er us I 



Ye who restrained .as an ancient chorus, 
JVIute while the coryphsus spake, 



Hush your separate voices before us. 

Link your separate lives for the .sake 
Of one sole Italy's living forever 1 



Givers of coal nnd clo.k too,— never 
Grudging that purple of yours at ths 
best, — 
By your heroic will and endeavor 

Each sublimely dispossessed, 
That all may inherit what each sur- 
renders ! 



Earth shall bless you. O noble emenders 
On egotist nations I Ye shall lead 

The plough of the world, and sow new 
splendors 
Into the furrow of things, for seed, — 

Ever the richer for what ye have given. 



Lead us and teach us, till earth and 
heaven 
Grow larger around us and higher 
above. 
Our sacrament-bread has a bitter leav- 
en ; 
We bait our traps with the name of 
love. 
Till hate Itself has a kinder meaning. 

XVIII. 
Oh, this world : this cheating and 
screening 
Of cheats I this conscience for candle- 
wicks. 
Not beacon-fires ! this over-weening 

Of under-hand diplomatic tricks. 
Dared for the country while scorned 
for the counter I 



Oh, this envy of those who mount here. 
And oh, this malice to make them trip 
Rather quenching the fire there, drying 
the fount here. 
To frozen body and thirsty lip. 
Than leave to a neighbor their ministra- 
tion. 



I cry aloud in my poet-passion, 



jH 



A CURSE FOB A NA TION. 



Viewing my England o'er Alp and 

sea. 

I loved her more in her ancient fashion : 

She carries her rifles tcO thick for me, 

Who spares them so in the cause of a 

brother. 

XSI 

Suspicion, panic ? end this pother. 
The sword, kept sheathless at peace- 
tmie, rusts. 
None fears for himself while he feels for 
another : 
The brave man either fights or trusts, 
And wears no mail in his private cham- 
ber. 



Beautiful Italy I golden amber 

Warm with the kisses of lover and 
traitor I 
Thou who hast drawn us on to remem- 
ber, 
Draw us to hope now : let ns be 
greater 
By this new future than that old story, 



Till truer glory replaces all glory. 

As the torch grows blind at the dawn 
of day ; 
And the nations rising up, their sorry 

And foolish sins shall put away. 
As children their toys when the teacher 
enters. 

X.Vfv. 
Till Love's one centre devour these 
centres 
Of many .self-loves ; and the patriot's 
trick 
To better his land by egotist ventures. 
Defamed from a virtue, shall make 
men sick. 
As the scalp at the belt of some red 
hero. 

XXV. 

For certain virtues have dropped to zero 
Left by the sun on the mountain's 
dewy side ; 



Churchman's charities, tender ,TS Nero, 

Indian suttee, heathen suicide, 
Service to rights divine, proved hollow : 



And Heptarchy patriotism must follow, 
— National voices, distinct yet de- 
pendent. 
Ensphering each other, as swallow does 
swallow. 
With circles still widening and ever 
ascendant. 
In multiform life to united progression, — 

xxvfi. 
These shall remain. And when, in the 
session 
Of nations, the separate language is 
heard. 
Each shall aspire, in sublime indiscre- 
tion, 
To help with a thought or e.xait with 
a word 
Less her own than her rival's honor. 

XXVIII. 

Each Christian nation shall lake upon 
her 
The law of the Christian man in vast : 
The crown of the getter shall fall to the 
donor, 
And last shall be fir^t while first shall 
be la.st. 
And to love best shall still be, to reign 
unsurpassed. 



A CURSE FOR A NATION. 

I'ROLOCUE. 

I HE.ARD an .angel speak List night. 

And he said. ' Write ! 
Write a nation's curse for me. 
And send it over the Western Sea.' 

I faltered, taking up the word : 

' Not so, my lord I 
If curses must be, choose another 
To send thy curse against my brothr 



A cuKs:: J--OX a na noy. 



• For I am bound by gratitude. 

By love and blood. 
To brothers of mine across the sea. 
Who stretch out kindly hands to me.' 

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou 

write 
My curse to-night. 
From the summits of love a curse is 

driven. 
As lightning is from the tops of heaven.' 

'Not so,' T answered. ' Evermore 

My heart is sore 
For my own land's sins : for little feet 
Of children bleedmg along the street : 

' For parked-up honors that gainsay 

The right of way : 
For almsgiving through a door that is 
Not open enough for two friends to kiss: 

' For love of freedom which abates 

Beyond the Straits : 
For patriot virtue starved to vice on 
Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion : 

'For an oligarchic parliament. 

And bribes well-meant. 
What curse to another land assign. 
When heavy - souled for the sins of 
mine ?' 

' Therefore,' the voice said, ' shalt thou 

write 
My cur.se to-night. 
Because thou hast strength to see and 

hate 
A foul thing done ^uithin thy gate.' 

• Not so,' I answered once again. 

' To curse, choose men. 
For 1, a woman, have only known 
How the heart melts and the tears run 
down.' 

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou 
write 
I\Iy curse to-night. 
Some women weep and curse, I say 
(And no one marvels,) night and day. 



' And thou shalt take their part to-nighf 

Weep and write. 
A curse from the depths of womanhood 
Is very salt, and bitter, and good.' 

So thus I wrote and mourned indeed, 

What all may read. 
And thus, as was enjoined on me, 
I send it over the Western Sea. 



THE CL'KSE. 



Because ye have broken your own 
chain 
With the strain 
Of brave men climbing a nation's 

height. 
Yet thence bear down with brand and 

thong 
On souls of others, — for this wrong 
This is the curse. Write. 

Because yourselves are standing straight 

In the state 
Of Freedom's foremost acolyte. 
Yet keep calm footing all the time 
On writhing bond-slaves, — for this 
crime 

This is the curse. Write. 

Because ye prosper in God's name. 

With a claim 
To honor in the old world's sight. 
Yet do the fiend's work perfectly 
In strangling martyrs, — for this lie 

This is the curse. Write. 



Ye shall watch while kings conspire 
Round the people's smouldering fire. 

And, warm for your part. 
Shall never dare — O shame ! 
To utter the thought into flame 

Which burns at your heart. 
This is the curse. Write. 

Ye shall watch while nations strive 
With the bloodhounds, die or survive. 

Drop faint from their jaws. 
Or throttle them backward to death. 
And only under your breath 



1i6 



A COURT LAD V. 



Shall favor the cause. 

This is the curse. Write. 

Ve shall watch while strong men draw 
The nets of feudal law 

To strangle the weak. 
And, countmg the sin for a sin, 
Your soul shall be sadder within 

Than the word ye shall speak. 
This is the curse. Write. 

When good men are praying erect 
That Christ may avenge his elect 

And deliver the earth, 
The prayer in your ears, said low, 
Shall sound like the tramp of a foe 

That's driving you forth. 
This is the curse. Write. 

When wise men give you their praise. 
They shall pause in the heat of the 
phrase, 
As if carried too far. 



When ye boast your own charters kept 

true. 
Ye shall blush ; — for the thing which ye 

do 
Derides what ye are. 

This is the curse. Write. 

When fools cast taunts at your gate. 
Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate 

As ye look o'er the wall. 
For your conscience, tradition, and 

name 
Explode with a deadlier blame 
'Ihan the worst of them all. 
This is the curse. Write. 

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done. 
Go. plant your flag in the sun 

Beside the ill-doers ! 
And recoil from clenching the curse 
Of God's witnessing Universe 

With a curse of yours. 
This is the curse. Write. 



A COURT LADY. 



Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark. 
Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. 



Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race ; 
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. 



Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, 
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. 



She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, ' Bring 
That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king 



' Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote. 

Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the thro.it. 



VI. 

Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves ^ 
Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves. 



.4 COURT LADV. 



Gorgeous she entered the sunlight, which gathered her up in a flame. 
While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital came. 



In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, 

' Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend.' 



Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed : 
Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head. 



' Art thou a Lombard, my brother ? Happy art thou,' she cried. 
And smiled like Italy on him : he dreamed in her face and died. 



Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to .1 second : 

He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeon; were reckoned. 



Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer, 

' Art thou a Romagnole ? ' Her eyes drove the lightnings before her. 



Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord 
Able to bind thee, O strong one — free by the stroke of a sword. 

XIV. 

' Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast 

To ripen our wine of the present, (too new,} in glooms of the past.' 



Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's 
Young, and pathetic with dyhig — a deep black hole in the curls. 

XVI. 

■ Art thou from Tuscany, brother ? and seest thou, dreaming in pair, 
Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain '.' ' 

XVII. 

Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands : 

' Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands.' 

XVIII. 
On she pas.sed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball : 
Kneeling . . ' O more than my brother ! how shall I thank thee for all V 



CONFESSIONS. 



XIX. 

' Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and hne, 
But ihou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine. 



' Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed. 

But blessed are those among nations, who dare to be strong for the rest ! 



Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined 
One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind. 



Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name. 
But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came. 



Only a tear for Venice ? — she turned as in passion and loss. 

And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross. 

XXIV. 

Fain^. with that strain of heart she moved on then to another. 

Stern and strong in his death. ' And dost thou suffer, my brother ? ' 

XXV. 

Hok'^ng his hands in hers : — ' Out of the Piedmont lion 

Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweetest to live on or to die on.' 



Holding his cold rough hands — ' Well, oh well have ye done 
In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone.' 



Back he fell while she .spoke. She rose to her feet with a .spring — 
' That was Piedmontese ! and this is the Court of the King,' 



CONFESSIONS. 



Face to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her ! 
God and she and 1 only,, .there, I sate down to draw her 
Soul through the clefts of confession. .. Speak, 1 am holding thee fast. 
As the angels of resurrection shall do at the last. 
■ My cup is blood-red 
With my sin,' she said, 
' And I pour it out to bitter lees. 
As if the angels of judgment stood over me strong at the last, 
Or as thou wert as these !' 



CONFESSIONS. 



When God smote HU hands together, and struck out thy soul as a spark 
Into the organized glory of things, from deeps of the dark, — 
' Say, didst thou shine, didst thou burn, didst thou honour the power in the form. 
As the star does at night, or the fire-fly, or even the little ground worm 1 
' I have sinned,' she said, 
' For my seed-light shed 
Has smouldered away from His first decrees ! 
The cypress praiseth the fire-fly, the ground-leaf praiseth the worm : 
I am viler than these ! ' 



When God on that sin had pity, and did not trample thee straight 
With His wild rains beating and drenching thy light found inadequate ; 
When He only sent thee the north-winds, a little searching and chdl. 
To quicken thy flame, .didst thou kuidle and flash to the heights of His will 1 
' I have sinned,' she said, 
' Unqnickened, unspread 
My fire dropt down ; and 1 wept on my knees! 
I only said of His winds of the north as I shrank from their chill, . . 
What delight is in these ?' 

IV. 

When God on that sin had pity, and did not meet it as such. 
But tempered the wind to thy uses, and softened the world to thy touch ; 
At least thou wast moved in thy soul, though unable to prove it afar. 
Thou couldst carry thy light like a jewel, not giving it out like a star ? 
' I have sinned,' she said, 
' And not merited 
The gift He gives, by the grace He sees ! 
The mine-cave praiseth the jewel, the hill-side praiseth the star : 
I am viler than these.' 

V. 

Then T cried aloud in my passion, . . tmthankful and impotent creature. 
To throw up thy scorn unto God through the rents in thy beggarly nature ! 
If He, the all-giving and loving, is served so unduly, what then 
Hast thou done to the weak and the false, and the changing, .. thy fellows of 
men 1 

' I have loved,'' she said. 

(Words bowing her head 

As the wind the wet acacia-tree !) 

' I saw God sitting .nbove me, — but I . . I sate among men, 

And I have loved these.' 

VI. 

Again with a lifted voice, like a choral trumpet that takes 

'J he lowest note of a viol that tre'nibles, and triumphing breaks 

On the air with it solemn and clear, — ' Behold ! I have sinned not in this ! 

Where I loved, I have loved much and well, — I have verily loved not amiss. 



„2o CONFESSIONS. 

' Let the living,' she said, 
• Enquire of the Dead. 
In the house of the pale-fronted Images, 
My own true dead will answer for me, that 1 have not loved amiss 
In my love for all these. 

VII. 
•The least touch of their hands in the morning, I k^epit by day and by night : 
Their least step on the stair, at the door, still throbs through me, if ever so light : 
Their least gift, which they left to my childhood, far off, in the long-ago years, 
Is now turned from a toy to a relic, and seen through the crystals of tears. 
Dig the snow,' she said 
' For my churchyard bed ; 
Yet I as I sleep, shall not fear to freeze. 
If one only of these my beloveds, shall love me with heart-warm tears, 
As I have loved these ! 

VIII. 

• If I angered any among them, from thenceforth my own life was sore ; 
If I fell by chance from their presence, 1 clung to their memory more : 
Their tender I often felt holy, their bitter I sometimes called sweet : 
And whenever their heart was refused me, I fell down straight at their feet. 
' I have loved,' she .said, — 
' Man is weak, God is dread ; 
Yet the weak man dies with his spirit at ease, ^ 

Having poured such an unguent of love but once on the Saviour s feet. 
As I lavished for these.' 

IX. 
Go, 1 cried, thou hast chosen the Human, and left the Divine ! 
Then at least, have the Human shared with thee their wild berry-wmej 
Have they loved back thy love, and wheiT strangers approach thee with blame. 
Have they covered thy fault with their kisses, and loved thee the same .' 
B-.it she shrunk and said, 
' God, over my head, 
Must sweep in the wrath of His judgment seas, 
If Ne deal with me sinning, but only indeed the same 
And no gentler than these.' 




AURORA LEIGH. 



FIRST BOOK. 

Of writing many books tliere is no end ; 
And I have written niucli in prose and 

verse 
For others' uses, will write now for 

mine, — 
Will write my story for my better self, 
As when you paint your portrait for a 

friend, 
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it 
Long alter he has ceased to love you, 

just 
To hold together what he was and is. 

I, writing thus, am still what men call 

young ; 
I hive not so far left the coasts of life 
I'o travel inland, that I cannot liear 
Thit raunnur of the outer Infinite 
Which inuveaned babies smile at in their 

sleep 
When wondered at for smiling ; not so 

far. 
But still [ catch my mother at her post 
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up, 
'Hush, hush — here's too much noise!' 

while her sweet eyes 
Leap forward, taking part against her 

word 
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel 
My father's slow hand, when she had 

left us both. 
Stroke out my childish curls across his 

knee ; 
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew 
He liked it better than a better jest) 
Inquire how many golden scudi went 
To make such ringlets. O my father's 

hand. 
Stroke heavily, heavily the poor hair 

down. 
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy 

knee ! 
I'm still too young, too young, to sit 

alone. 



I write. My mother was a Florentine, 
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from 

seeing me 
When scarcely I was four years old : mv 

life 
A poor spark snatched up from a failing 

lamp 
V/hich went out therefore. She was 

we,~.k and frail ; 
She could not bear the joy of giving 

life — 
The rnother's rapture slew her. If her 

kiss 
Had left a longer weij^ht upon iriv lips, 
It might have steadied the uneasy breath, 
And lecoiiciled and fraternised my soul 
Willi the new order. As it was, indeed, 
I fell a niolher-want about the world, 
A:id still went seeking, like a bleating 

Iamb 
Left out at night in shutting up the 

fold,— 
As restless as a nest-deserted bird 
Grown chill through something being 

away, though what 
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was 

born 
To make my father sadder, and myself 
Not oveijoyous, truly. Women know 
The way lo rear up children, (to be just.) 
They know a simple, merry, tender 

. knack 
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes. 
And stringing pretty words that make 

no sense. 
And kissing full sense into empty words ; 
Which things are corals to cut life upon. 
Although such trifles : children learn by 

such. 
Love's holy earnest in a pretty play, 
And get not over-early solemnised. 
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love's 

Divine, 
Which burns and hurts not, — not a sin- 
gle bloom, — 



322 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Become aware and unafraid of Love. 
Siicli good do mothers. Fatlierslove as 

well 
— Mine did, I know, — but still with 

heavier biains, 
And w'lls more consciously responsible, 
And not as wisely, since less foolishly; 
So mothers have God's license to be 

missed . 

My fatlier was an austere Englishinan, 
Who, after a dry lite-lime spent at home 
In college-learning, law, and parish talk. 
Was flooded with a passion unaware. 
His whole i^rovisioned and complacent 

]iast 
Drowned out from iiiin that moment. 

As he stood 
In Florence, where he had come to 

spend a month 
And I'.ote the secret of Da Vinci's 

drains, 
He musing soinewhat absently perliaps 
Some English question . . whether men 

should pay 
The unpopular but necessary tax 
With left or right hand — in the alien 

sun 
In that great square of the Santissima, 
There drifted past him (scarcely marked 

enough 
To move his comfortable island-scorn,) 
A train of priestly banners, cross and 

psalm, 
The white:veiled rose-crowned maidens 

holding up 
Tall tapers, weighty for such wrists, 

aslant 
To th- blue luminous tremor of the air, 
Ami letting drop the white wax as they 

went 
To eat the bishop's wafer at the church ; 
From which long trail of chanting priests 

and girls 
A face flashed like a cymbal on his face. 
And shook with silent clangour brain 

and heart. 
Transfiguring him to music. Thus, even 

Ihusi 
He too received his sacramental gift 
With encharistic meanings ; lor he 

loved. 

And thus beloved, she died. I've lieard 
it said 



That but to see him in the first surprise 
()t widower and father, nursing me, 
Unmothered little child of four years 

old. 
His large man's hands afraid to touch 

my curls, 
As if the gold would tarnish, — liis grave 

lips 
Contriving such a miserable smile. 
As if ha knew needs must, or 1 should 

die. 
And yet 'twas hard.^would almost make 

the stones 
Cry out for pity. There's a verse he set 
In .Santa Croce to her metnory, 
' Weep for an infant too young to weep 

much 
When death removed this mother ' — 

stops the mirth 
To-day on women's faces when they 

walk 
With rosy children hanging on their 

gowns, 
Under the cloister to escape the sun 
That scorches in the piazza. After 

which 
He le t our Florence and made haste to 

hide 
Himself, his prattling child, and silent 

grief. 
Among the mountains above Pelago ; 
Because unmothered babes, he thought, 

had need 
Of mother nature more than others use, 
And Pan's white goats, with udders 

warm and lull 
Of mystic contemplations, come 1o feed 
Poor milkless lijis of orphans like his 

own — 
Sncli scholar-scraps he talked, Fve heard 

from friends, 
For even prosaic men, who wear grief 

long, 
Will get to wear it as a hat aside 
With a flower stuck in't. Father, then, 

and child, 
We lived among the mountains many 

year's, 
God's silence on the outside of the house, 
And we, who did not speak loo loud 

within : 
And old Assunta to make up the fire, 
t'rossing herself whene'er a sudden fiame 
Which lightened from the firewood, made 
alive 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Tliat picture of my mother on the wall. 
The painter drew it after she was dead ; 
And when the face was finished, throat 

and liands, 
Her cameriera carried liim, in hate 
Of the English-fasliioned shroud, tlie 

last brocade 
She dressed in at the Pitti. ' He should 

paint 
No sadder thing than that,' she swore, 

' to wrong 
Her poor signora.' Therefore very 

strange 
The effect was. I, a little child, would 

croucli 
For hours upon the floor with knees 

drawn up. 
And gaze across them, lialf in terror, 

half 
In adoration, at the picture there, — 
That swan-like supernatural white life. 
Just sailing upward from the red stiff 

silk 
Which seemed to have no part in it, nor 

power 
To keep it from quite breaking out of 

bounds : 
For hours I sate and stared. Assunta's 

awe 
And my poor father's melancholy eyes 
Still pointed that way. That way, went 

my thoughts 
When wandering beyond sight. And as 

I grew 
In years, I mixed, confused, uncon- 
sciously, 
Wliatever I last read or lieard or dreamed 
Abhorrent, admirable, beautiful, 
Pathetical, or ghastly, or grotesque, 
With still that face . . . which did not 

therefore change. 
But kept i\\i mystic level of all forms 
And fears and admirations, was by turns 
Ghost, fiend, and angel, fairy, witch, and 

sprite, 
A dauntless Muse who eyes a dreadful 

Fate, 
A loving Psyche who loses sight of Love, 
A still Medusa, with mild milky brows 
All curdled and all clothed upon with 

snakes 
Whose slime falls fast as sweat will ; or, 

anon. 
Our Lady of the Passion, stabbed with 

swords 



Where the Babe sucked ; or. Lamia in 
her first 

Moonlighted pallor, ere she shrunk and 
blinked, 

And, shuddering, wriggled down to the 
unclean ; 

Or, my own mother, leaving her last 
smile 

In her last kiss, upon the baby-.Tiouth 

My father pushed down on the bed for 
that, — 

Or my dead mother, without smile or 
kiss. 

Buried at Florence. All which images, 

Concentred on the picture, glassed them- 
selves 

Before my meditative childhood, . . as 

The incoherencies of change and death 

Are represented fully, luixed and merg- 
ed," 

In the smooth fair mysterv of perpetual 
Life. 

And while I stared away ray childish 
wils 

LTpon mv mother's picture, (ah, poor 
child'!) 

My father, who through love had sud- 
denly 

Thrown off th&old conventions, broken 
loose 

From chin-bands of the soul, like Laza- 
rus, 

Yet had no time to learn to talk and 
walk 

Or grow anew familiar with the sun, — 

Who had reached to freedom, not to 
action, lived, 

But lived as one entranced, with 
thoughts, not aims, — 

Whom love had unmade from a common 
man 

But not completed to an uncommon 
man, — 

My father taught me what he had learnt 
the best 

Before he died and lel't me, — grief and 
love. 

And. seeing we had books among the 
hills. 

Strong words of counselling souls con- 
federate 

With vocal pines and waters, — out of 
books 

He taught me all the ignorance of men, 



324 



AUKOKA LEIGH. 



And how God laughs \:\ heaven when 
any man 

Says 'Here I'm learned; this, I under- 
stand ; 

In that. I am never caught at fluilt or 
doubt.' 

He sent the schools to r:hool, demon- 
strating 

A fool will pass for such through one 
mistake, 

While a philosopher will pass for such. 

Through said mistakes being ventured 
in the gross 

And heaped up to a system. 

I am like, 

They tell me, my dear father. Broader 
brows 

Howbeit, upon a slenderer undergrowth 

Of delicate features,- paler, near as 
grave ; 

But then my mother's smile breaks up 
tlie whole. 

And makes it better sometimes than 
itself. 

So, nine full years, our days were hid 

with God 
Among his mountains. I was just thir- 
teen. 
Still growing like the plants from unseen 

roots 
In tongue-tied Springs, — and suddenly 

awoke 
To full life and life's needs and agonies, 
AVilh an intense, strong, struggling 

heart beside 
A stone-dead father. Life, struck sharp 

on death, 
Makes awful lightning. His last word 

was, ' Love—' 
' Love, my child, love.love ! '—(then he 

had do'ie with grieO 
' Love, my child.' Ere I answered he 

was gone. 
And none was left to love in all the 

world. 

There, ended childhood : what suc- 
ceeded next 
I recollect as. after fevers, men 
Thread back the passage of delirium, 
Missing tlie turn still, baffled by the 

door; 
Smooth endless davs, notched here and 
there with knives ; 



A weary, wormy darkness, spurred if 

the flank 
With flame, that it sliould eat and end 

itself 
Like some tormented scorpion. Then, 

at last, 
I do remember clearly, liow there came 
A stranger with authority, not right, 
(I thought not) who commanded, caught 

me up 
From old Assunta's neck ; how, with a 

shriek. 
She let nie go, — while I, with ears too 

full 
Of my fatlier!s siience, to shriek back a 

word. 
In all a child's astonishment at grief 
Stared at the wharf-edge where she 

stood and moaned. 
My poor Assunta, where she stood and 

moaned ! 
The white walls, the blue hills, my Italy, 
Drawn backward from the shudderu.g 

steamer-deck. 
Like one in anger drawing back her 

skirts 
Which suppliants catch at. Then tlie 

bitter sea 
Inexorably pushed between us both. 
And sweeping up the ship with my de- 
spair 
Threw us out as a pasture to the stars. 

Ten nights and days we voyaged on tlie 

deep ; 
Ten nights and days without the com- 
mon face 
Of any day or night ; the moon and sun 
Cut off from the green reconciling earth. 
To starve inlo a blind ferocity 
-And glare unnatural ; the very sky 
(Dropping its bell-net down upon the sea 
As if no human heart should 'scape 

alive,) 
Bedraggled with the desolating salt. 
Until it seemed no more that holy heaven 
To which my father went. All new, and 

strange - 
The universe turned stranger, for a child. 

Then, land!— then, England! oh, the 

frosty cliffs 
Looked cold upon me. Could I find a 

home 



AURORA LEIGH. 



32J 



Among those mean red houses through 

tlie fog? 
And when I heard my father's language 

ftrst 
From ahen hps which had no kiss for 

mine. 
I wept aloud, then laughed, then wept, 

then wept, 
And some one near me said the child was 

mad 
Through much sea-sickness. The 'rain 

swept us on. 
Was this my father's England? the great 

isle ? 
The ground seemed cut up from the fel- 
lowship 
C)f verdure, field from field, as man from 

man ; 
The skies themselves looked low and 

positive. 
As almost you could touch them with a 

hand. 
And dared to do it they were so far off 
From God's celestial crystals ; all things 

blurred 
And dull and vague. Did Shakespeare 

and his mates 
Absorb the light here? — not a hill or 

stone 
With heart to strike a radiant colour up 
Or active outline on the indifferent air ! 

I think I see my father's sister stand 
Upon the hall-step of her country-house 
To give me welcome. She stood straight 

and calm. 
Her somewhat narrow forehead braided 

tight 
As if for taming accidental thoughts 
From possible pulses; brown hair prick- 
ed with gray 
Bv frigid use of life, (she was net old 
Altliough my fatlier's elder by a year) 
A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate 

line3 ; 
A close mild mouth, a little soured .ibout 
The ends, tiirough speaking unrequited 

loves, 
Or peradventure niggardly half-truths ; 
Eyes of no color, — once tliey might have 

smiled, 
But never, never have forgot themselves 
111 smiling; cheeks in which was yet a 

rose [book, 

Of perished summers, like a rose in a 



Kept more for ruth than pleasure, — if 
past bloom. 

Past iadiiig also. 

She had lived, we'll say, 

A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, 

A quiet life, which was not life at ail, 

(But that, she had not lived enough to 
know) 

Between the vicar and the county squires, 

The lord-lieutenant looking down some- 
times 

From the empyrean to assure their souls 

Against chance vulgarisms, and, in the 
abyss. 

The apothecary looked on once a year, 

To prove their soundness of humility. 

The poor-club exercised her Christian 
gifts 

Of knitting stockings, stitching petti- 
coats. 

Because we are of one flesh after all 

And need one flannel, (with a proper 
sense 

Of difference in the quality) — and still 

The book-club, guarded from your mod- 
ern trick 

Of shaking dangerous questions from 
the crease. 

Preserved her intellectual. She had 
lived 

A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage, 

Accounting that to leap from perch to 
perch 

Was act and joy enough for any bird. 

Dear heaven, how silly are the things 
that live 

In thickets, and eat berries ! 

I, alas, 

A wild bird scarcely fledged, was brought 
to lier cage. 

And she was there to meet ine. Very 
kind. 

Bring the clean water ; give out the fresh 
seed. 

She stood upon the steps to welcome 

me, 
Calm, in black garb. I clung about her 

neck. — 
Young babes, who catch at every shred 

ol wool 
To draw the new light closer, <;.iich and 

cling 
Less blindly. In my ears, my father's 

word » 



526 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Hummed igiiorantly, as the sea in shells, 
' Love, love, my child.' She, black 

there with my grief. 
Might feel my love — she was his sister 

once — 
I clung to her. A moment she seemed 

moved, 
Kissed me with cold lips, suffered me to 

cling. 
And drew me feebly through the hall into 
Tlie room she sate in. 

There, with some strange spasm 
Of pain and passion, she wrung loose 

my hands 
Imperiously, and held me at arm's 

lenstli, 
And with two gray-steel naked-bladed 

eyes 
Searciied through my face, — ay, stabbed 

it tlirough and through, 
'I'hrough brows and cheeks and chin, as 

if to find 
A wicked murderer in my innocent face, 
If not here, there perhaps. Then, 

drawing breath. 
She struggled for her ordhiary calm, 
And missed it rather, —told me not to 

shrink, 
As if .she had told me not to lie or 

swear, 
' She loved my father and would love me 

too 
As long as I deserved it.' Very kind. 

I understood her meaning afterward ; 
She thought to find my mother in my 

face. 
And questioned it for that. For she, 

my aunt, 
Had loved my father truly, as she 

could, 
And hated, with the gall of gentle souls. 
My Tu.scan mother who had fooled 

away 
A wise man from wise courses, a good 

man 
From obvious duties, and, depriving her, 
His sister, of the household precedence, 
Had wronged his tenants, robbed his 

native land, 
And made him mad, alike by life and 

death. 
In love and sorrow. She had pored for 

years 
What sort of woman could be suitable 



To her sort of hate, to entertain it with 
And .so, her very curiobity 
Became hate too, and all the idealism 
She ever used in life, was u.scd for hate. 
Till hate, so nourished, did exceed at 

last 
The love from which it grew, in strengiii 

and heat, 
And wrinkled her smooth conscience 

with a sense 
Of disputable virtue (say not, sin) 
When Christian doctrine was enforced 

at church. 

And thus my father's sister was to me 
My mother's hater. From that day, she 

did 
Her duty to me, (I appreciate it 
In her own word as spoken lo herselO 
Her duty, in large measure, well-pressed 

out. 
But measured always. She was gener- 

rous, bland. 
More courteous than was teuder, gave 

me siill 
The first place, — as if fearful that God"s 

saints 
Would look down suddenly and .say, 

' Herein 
You missed a point, I think, thu ^ Lh 

lack of love.' 
Alas, a mother never is afraid 
Of speaking angerly to any child, 
Since love, she knows, is justitiedof love. 

And I, I was a good child on th« whole, 
A meek and manageable child. Why 

not ? 
I did not live, to have the faults of life : 
There seemed more true life in my lath- 
er's grave 
Than in all England. Since thai threw 

me off 
Who fain would cleave, (his latest wi.l, 

they say. 
Consigned me to liis land) I only thought 
Of lying quiet there where 1 was thrown 
Like sea-weed on the rocks, and suffer- 
ing her 
To jirick me to a pattern with her pin. 
Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf from leaf. 
And dry out from my drowied anatomy 
The last sea-salt left in me. 

So it was. 
I broke the copious curls upon my head 



AURORA LEIGH. 



327 



In braids, because she liked smooth-or- 
dered liair. 
I left off saying my sweet Tuscan words 
Whicli still at any stirring of the heart 
Came up to float across the English 

phrase, 
As lilies, {Bene . . or cAe che') because 
She liked my father's child to speak his 

tongue. 
I learnt the collects and the catechism, 
The creeds, from Athanasius back to 

Nice, 
The Articles . . the Tracts agautst the 

times, 
(By no means Buonaventure's ' Prick of 

Love,') 
And various popular synopses of 
Inhuman doctrines never taught by John, 
Because she liked instructed piety. 
I learnt my complement of classic French 
( ICept pure of Balzac and neologism,) 
And German also, since she liked a range 
Of liberal education, — tongues, not 

books. 
I learn' a little algebra, a little 
Of the mathematics, — brushed with ex- 
treme flounce 
The circle of the sciences, because 
She misliked women who are friijolous. 
I learnt the royal genealogies 
Of Oviedo, tlie internal laws 
Of the Burmese empire, . . by how 

many feet 
Mount Cliimborazo outsoars TeneriflTe, 
What navigable river joins itself 
To Lara, and what census of the year 

five 
Was taken at IClagenfurt, — because she 

liked - _ 
A general insight into useful facts. 
I learnt much music, — such as would 

have been 
As quite impossible in Johnson's day 
As still it might be wished — fine sleights 

of hand 
And unimagined fingering, shuffling off 
The hearer's soul through hurricanes of 

notes [tumes 

To a noisy Tophet ; and I drew . . cos- 
From French engravings, nereids neatly 

draped, 
With smirks of simmering godship, — I 

washed in 
Landscapes from nature (rather say, 

washed out.) 



I danced the polka and Cellarius, 

Spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled 

flowers in wax. 
Because she liked accomplishments in 

girls. 
I read a score of books on womanhood 
To prove, if women do not think at all, 
They mav teach thinking, (to a maiden- 
aunt 
Or else the author)— books that boldly 

assert 
Their right of comprehending husband's 

talk 
When not too deep, and even of answer- 
ing 
With pretty ' may it please you,' or ' so 

it is,' — 
Their rapid insight and fine aptitude. 
Particular worth and general inissionari- 

ness, 
As long as they keep quiet by the fire 
And never say ' no' when the world say 

'ay,' 
For that is fatal, — their angelic reach 
Of virtue, chiefly used to sit and darn, 
And fatten household sinners, — their, in 

brief, 
Potential faculty in everything 
Of abdicating power in it: she owned 
She liked a woman to be womanly. 
And English women, she thanked God 

and sighed, 
(Some people alwavs sigh in thanking 

God) 
Were models to the universe. And last 
I learnt cross-stitch, because she did not 

like 
To see me wear the niglit with empty 

hands, 
A -doing nothing. So, my shepherdess 
Was something after all, (the pastoral 

saints 
Be praised for't) leaning lovelorn with 

pink eyes 
To match her shoes, when I mistook the 

silks ; 
Her head uncrushed by that round weight 

of hat 
So strangely similar to the tortoise-she!! 
Which slew the tragic poet. 

By the way. 
The works of women are symbolical. 
V»'e sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our 
sight, 



328 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Producing what? A pair of slippers, 

sir, 
1o put on when you're weary — or a 

stool 
To tumble over and vex you . . ' curse 

tha( stool !' 
Or else at best, a cushion, where you 

lean 
And sleep, and dream of something we 

are not, 
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas ! 
This hurts most, this . . that, after all, 

we are paid 
The worth of our work, perhaps. 

In looking down 
Those years of education, (to return) 
I wonder if brinviliiers suffered more 
In the water torture, . . flood succeed- 
ing flood 
To drench the incapable throat and split 

the veins . . 
Than I did. Certain of your feebler 

souls 
Go out in such a process ; many pine 
To a sick, inodorous light ; my own en- 
dured : 
I had relations in the Unseen, and drew 
The elemental nutriment^nd heat 
From nature, as earth feels the sun at 

nights. 
Or as a babe sucks surely in the dark, 
I kept the life thrust ou me, on the out- 
side 
Of the inner life with all its ample room 
For heart and lungs, for will and intel- 
lect. 
Inviolable by conventions God, 
I thank thee for that grace of thine I 

At first, 
I felt no life which was not patience, — 

did 
Tlie thing she bade me, without heed to 

a thing 
Reyoud it, sate in just the chair she 

placed. 
With back against the window, to ex- 
clude 
The sight of the great lime-tree on the 

lawn. 
Which seemed to have come on purpose 

from the woods 
Tobriu'j the house a message, — ay, and 

walked 
Demurely hi her carpeted low rooms. 



As if I should not, harkening my own 

steps, 
Misdoubt I was alive. I read her books, 
Was civil to her cousin, Romney Leigh, 
Gave ear to her vicar, tea to her visitors, 
And heard them whisper, when I changed 

a cup, 
(I blushed for joy at that) — 'The Italian 

child, 
For all her bine eyes and her quiet ways, 
Thrives ill in England ; she is jialer yet 
Tiian when we came the last time ; she 

will die.' 

' Will die.' My cousin, Romney Leigh, 

blushed too, 
With sudden anger, and approaching 

me 
Said low between his teeth — ' You're 

wicked now ! 
You wish to die and leave the world a- 

dusk 
For others, with your naughty light 

blown out ? ' 
I looked into his face defyingly. 
He might have known that, being what 

I was, 
'Tvvas natural to like to get away 
As far as dead folk can ; and then indeed 
f-onie people make no trouble when they 

die. 
He turned and went abruptly, slammed 

the door 
And shut his dog out. 

Romney, Romney Leigh. 
I have not named my cousin hitherto. 
And yet I used him as a sort of friend ; 
My elder by few years, but cold and shy 
And absent . . tender when he thought 

of it, 
Which scarcely was imperative, grave 

betimes. 
As well as earlv master of Leigli Hall, 
Whereof the nightmare state upon his 

yonlh 
Repressing all its seasonable delights, 
And agomsing with a ghastly sense 
Of universal hideous want and wrong 
To incriminate jiossession. When he 

came 
From college to the country, very oft 
He crossed the hill on visits to mv aunt, 
With gifts of blu-? grapes from the hot- 
houses, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



32g 



A book in one hand. — mere statistics (if 
I ciianced to lift the cover) count of all 

The goats whose beards grow sprouting 
down toward hell. 

Against God's saparative judgment- 
hour. 

And she, she almost loved him, — even 
allowed 

Tliat sometimes he should seem to sigh 
my way ; 

It made him easier to be pitiful, 

And sighing was his gift. So, undis- 
turbed 

At whiles she let him shut my music up 

And push my needles down, a->.d lead 
me out 

To see in that south angle of the house 

The tigs grow black as if by a Tuscan 
rock. 

On some light pretext. She would turn 
her head 

At other moments, go to fetch a thing. 

And leave me breath enough to speak 
with him. 

For his sake ; it was simple. 

Sometimes too 

He would have saved me utterly, it 
seemed. 

He stood and looked so 

Once, he stood so near 

He dropped a sudden hand upon my 
head 

Bent down on woman's work, as soft as 
rain — 

But then I rose and snook it off as fire. 

The stranger's touch that took my 
father's place 

Yet dared seem soft. 

I used him for a friend 

Before I ever knew him for a friend. 

'Twas better, 'twas worse also, after- 
ward : 

We came so close, we saw our differences 

Too intimately. Always Romney Leigh 

Was looking for the worms, I for the 
gods. 

A godlike nature his; the gods look 
down, 

Incurious of themselves : and certainly 

'Tis well I should remember, how, those 
days, 

I was a worm too, and he looked on me. 

A little by his act perhaps, yet more 
By something in me, surely not my will, 



I did not die. But slowly, as one in 
swoon. 

To whom life creeps back in the form of 
death. 

With a sense of separation, a Wind pain 

Of blank obstruction, and a roar i' the 
ears 

Of visionary chariots which retreat 

As earth grows clearer . . slowly, by de- 
grees, 

I woke, rose up . . where was I ? in the 
world ; 

For uses therefore I must count worth 
while. 

I had a little chamber in the house. 
As green as any privet-hedge a bird 
Might choose to build in, though the 

nest itself 
Could show but dead-brown sticks and 

straws; the walls 
Were green, the carpet was pure gieen, 

the straight 
Small bed was curtained greenly, and 

the folds 
Hung green about the window, which 

let in 
The out-door world with all its greenery 
You could not push your head out and 

escape 
A dash of dawn-dew from the honey- 
suckle. 
But so vou were baptised into the grace 
And privilege of seeing. . 

First, the lime, 
(I had enough, there, of the iime, be 

sure, — 
My morning-dream was often liummed 

away 
By the bees in it ;) past the lime, the 

lawn, 
Which, after sweeping broadly round 

the house. 
Went trickling through the shrubberies 

in a stream 
Of tender turf, and wore and lost itself 
Among the acacias, over whicli, you saw 
The irregular line of elms by the deep 

lane 
Which stopped the grounds and dammed 

the overflow • 

Of arbutus and laurel. Out of sight 
The lane was ; sunk so deep, no foreign 

tramp 
Nor drover of wild ponies out of Wales 



33° 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's 
lodge 

Dispensed such odours, — though his 
stick well crooked 

Might reach the lowest trail of blossom- 
ing briar 

Which dipped upon the wall. Behind 
the elms, 

And through their tops, vou saw the 
folded hills 

Striped up and down with hedges, (burly 
oaks 

Projecting from the line to show them- 
selves) 

Through which my cousin Romney's 
chimneys smoked 

As still as when a silent mouth in frost 

Breathes — showing where the woodlands 
hid Leigh Hall ;, 

While, far above, a ju' ji table-land, 

A promontory without water, stretched, — • 

You could not catch it if the days were 
thick, 

Or took it for a cloud; but, otherwise 

The vigorous sun would catch it up at 
eve 

And use it for an anvil till he had filled 

The shelves of heaven with burning 
thui:derbolts, 

Protesting against night and darkness : — 
then. 

When all his setting trouble was re- 
solved 

To a trance of passive glory, you might 
see 

In apparition on the golden sky 

(Alas, my Giotto's background !) the 
sheep run 

Along the line clear outline, small as 
mice 

That run along a witch's scarlet thread. 



Not a grand nature. Not my chestnut- 

wouds 
Of Vallombrosa, cleaving by tlie spurs 
To the precipices. Not my headlong 

leaps 
Of waters, that cry out for joy or fear 
In leaping through the palpitating pines, 
Li'ke a white soul tossed out to eternity 
With thrills of time upon it. Not in- 
deed 
My multitudinous mountains, sitting in 
The magic ci»cle, with the mutual touch 



Electric, panting from their full deep 

hearts 
Beneath the influent heavens, and wait- 
ing for 
Communion and commission. Italy 
Is one thing, England one. 

On English ground 
You understand the letter . . ere the 

fall 
How Adam lived in a garden. All the 

fields 
Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegav- 

like; 
The hills are crumpled plains, — the plains 

parteries. 
The trees, round, woolly, ready to be 

clipped ; 
And if you seek for any wilderness 
You find, at best, a park. A nature 

tamed 
And grown domestic like a barn-door 

fowl. 
Which does not awe you with its claws 

and beak. 
Nor tempt you to an eyrie too higli up. 
But which, in cackling, sets you think- 
ing of 
Your eggs to-morrow at breakfast, in the 

pause 
Of finer meditation. 

Rather say, 
A sweet familiar nature, stealing in 
As a dog might, or child, to touch your 

hand 
Or pluck your gown, and liumbly mind 

you so 
Of presence and affection, excellent 
For inner uses, from the things without. 

I could not be unthankful, I who was 
Entreated thus and holiieu. hitheroom 
I speak of, ere the house «as well awake, 
And also at'ter it was well asleep, 
I sat alone, and drew the blessing in 
Of all that nature. With a gradual step, 
A stir among the leaves, a breath, a ray. 
It came in softly, while the angels made 
A place for it beside me. The moon 

came. 
And swept my chamber clean of foolislt 

thoughts. 
The sun came, saying, ' Shall I lif't this 

light 
Against the lime-tree, and vou will not 

look ? 



I make the birds sing — listen ! . . but, 

for you, 
God never hears your voice, excepting 

when 
You he upon the bed at nights and 

weep.' 

Then, sometliing moved me. Then, I 

wakened up 
More slowly than I verily write now, 
But wholly, at last, ■ I wakened, opened 

wide 
The window and my soul, and let the 

airs 
And out-door sights sweep gradual gos- 
pels in, 
Regenerating what I was. O life, 
How oft we throw it off and think, — 

' Enough, 
Enough of life in so much ! — here's a 

cause 
For rupture ; — herein we must break 

with Lite, 
Or be ourselves unworthy ; here we are 

wronged, 
Maimed, spoiled for aspiration : farewell 

Life ! ' 
— And so, as froward babes, we hide 

our eyes 
And think all ended. — Then, Life calls 

to us 
In some transformed, apocalyptic voice. 
Above us, or below us. or aroimd : 
Perhaps we name it Nature's voice, or 

Love's, 
Tricking ourselves, because we are more 

ashamed 
To own our compensations than our 

griefs: 
Still, Life's voice ! — still, we make our 

peace with Life. 

And I, so young then, was not sullen. 

Soon 
I used to get up early, just to sit 
And watch the morning quicken in the 

gray. 
And hear the silence open like a flower. 
Leaf after leaf, — and stroke with listless 

hand 
The woodbine through the winduw, till 

at last 
I came to do it with a sort of love. 
At foolish unaware: whereat I smiled, — 
A melancholy smile, to catch myself 



AURORA LEIGH. 

Smiling for joy. 



3.V 



Capacity for joy 
Admits temptation. It seemed, next, 

worth while 
To dodge the sharp sword set against my 

life ; 
To slip down stairs through all the sleepy 

house. 
As mute as any dream there, and escape 
As a soul from the body, out of doors. 
Glide through the shrubberies, drop intu 

the lane. 
And wander on the hills an hour or two. 
Then back again before the house sliould 

stir. 

Or else I sat on in my chamber green, 
And lived my .life, and thought my 

thoughts, and prayed 
My prayers without the vicar : read my 

books, 
Without considering whether they were 

fit 
To do me good. Mark, there. We get 

no good 
By bei g ungenerous, even to a book. 
And calculating profits . . so nuich help 
Bv so much reading. It is rather when 
We gloriously forget ourselves and 

plunge 
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's 

profound, 
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of 

truth— 
'Tis then we get the right good from a 

book. 

I read much. What my father taught 
before 

From many a volume. Love re-empha- 
sised 

Upon the self-same pages : Theophrast 

Grew tender with the memory of his 
eyes. 

And yElian made mine wet. The trick 
of Greek 

And Latin, he had taught me, as he 
would 

Have taught me wrestling or the game 
of fives 

If such he had known, — most like a ship- 
wrecked man 

Who heaps his single platter with goats' 
cheese 

And scarlet berries ; or like anv man 



332 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Who loves but one, and so gives all at 

once, 
Because he has it, rather ihan because 
He counts it Worthy. Thus, my father 

gave : 
And thus, as did the women formerly 
By young Acliilles, when they pinned 

the veil 
Across the boy's audacious front, and 

swept 
With tuneful laughs the silver-fretted 

rocks. 
He wrapt his little daughter in his large 
Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no. 

But, after I had read for memory, 

I read for hope. The path my father's 

foot 
Had trod me out, which suddenlv broke 

off, 
(What time he dropped the wallet of the 

flesh 
And passed) alone T carried on, and set 
My child-lieart 'gainst the thorny under- 
wood, 
To reach the grassy shelter of the trees. 
Ah, babe i' the wood, without a brother- 

bab>? ! 
My own self-pity, like the red-breast 

bird. 
Flies back to cover all that past with 

leaves. 

Sublimest danger, over which none 

weeps, 
When any young wayfaring soul goes 

forth 
Alone, unconscious of tlie perilous road, 
The day-sun dazzling in his limpid eyes, 
To thrust liis own way, he an alien, 

thiough 
The world of books ! Ah, you !— you 

think it line. 
You clap hands—' A fair day ! '—you 

clieer him on. 
As if the worst, could happen, were to 

rest 
Too long beside a fountain. Yet, be- 
hold. 
Behold ! -the world of books is still the 

world : 
And worldlings in it are less merciful 
And more puissant. I'or the wicked 
there 



Are winged like angels. Every knite 

that strikes. 
Is edged trom elemental fire to assail 
A spiritual life. The beautiful seems 

right 
By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong 
Because of weakness. Power is justi- 
fied, 
Though armed against St. Michael. 

Many a crown 
Covers bald foreheads. In the book- 
world, true. 
There's no lack, neither, of God's saints 

and kings. 
That shake ihe ashes of the grave aside 
From tlieircalm locks, and undiscomfited 
Look steadfast truths against lime's 

changing mask. 
True, many a prophet teaches in the 

roads ; 
True, many a seer pulls down the flam- 
ing heavens 
Upon his own head in strong martyr- 
dom. 
In order to light men a moment's space. 
But stay ! —who judges.' — who distin- 
guishes 
'Twixt Saul and Nahash justly, at first 

sight. 
And leaves king Saul precisely at the 

sin. 
To serve king David ? who discerns at 

once 
The soimd of Ihe trumpets, when the 

trumpets blow 
For Alaric as well as Charlemagne? 
Who judges wizards, and can tell true 

seers 
From conjurors? The cliild, there? 

Would you leave 
That cliild to wander in a battle-field 
And push his innocent smiie against the 

guns? 
Or even in a catacomb . . . his torcli 
Grown ragged in the fluttering air, and 

all 
The dark a-mutter round him ? not a 
child. 

I re.nd books bad and good — some bad 
and gooii 

At once : (good aims not always make 
good books ; 

Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smell- 
ing soils 



AURORA LEIGH. 



333 



In digging vineyards, even) books, that 

prove 
God's being so definitely, tliat man's 

doubt 
Grows self-defined the other side tlielirie, 
Made Atheist by suggestion; moral 

books. 
Exasperating to license; genial books, 
Discoiuiiing from the human dignity ; 
And merry books, which set you weep- 
ing when 
The sun shines, — ay, and melancholy 

books, 
Wliich make you laugh that any one 

should weep 
In this disjointed life for one wrong 

more. 

Tlie world of books is still the world, I 
wriie. 

And both worlds have God's providence, 
thank God, 

To keep and hearten : with some strug- 
gle, indeed. 

Among the breakers, some hard swim- 
ming through 

The deeps — I lost breath in my soul 
sometimes. 

And cried, ' God save me if there's any 
God, 

But, even so, God saved me; and being 
dashed 

From error on to error, every turn 

Still brought me nearer to the central 
truth. 

I thought so. All this anguish in the 
thick 

Of men's opinions . . press and coun- 
terpress, 

Now up, now down, now underfoot, and 
now 

Emergent . . all the best of it, perhaps, 

But throws you back upon a nob:e trust 

And use of your own instinct, — merelv 
proves 

Pure reason stronger than bare infer- 
ence 

At strongest. Try it,— fix against heav- 
en's wall 

Your scaling ladders of school logic- 
mount 

Step by step!— Sight goes faster; that 
still ray 



Which strikes out from you, how, you 
cannot tell, 

And why, you know not — (did you ei'im- 
inate. 

That such as you, indeed, should ana- 
lyse ?) 

Goes straight and fast as light, and high 
as God. 



The cygnet finds the water ; but the 

man 
[s born in ignorance of his element, 

And feels out blind at first, disorganised 

By sin i' the blood,— his spirit-insight 
dulled 

And crossed by his sensations. Pres- 
ently 

He feels it quicken in the dark some- 
times ; 

When mark, be reverent, be obedient. — 

For such dumb motions of imperfect life 

.Are oracles of vital Deity 

Attesting the Hereafter. Let who says 

' The soul's a clean white paper,' rather 
say, 

A palimpsest, a prophet's holograph 

Defiled, erased and covered by a 
monk's, — 

The apocalypse, by a Longus I poring 
on 

Which obscene text, we may discern 
perhaps 

Some fair, fine trace of what was written 
once. 

Some upstroke of an alpha and omega 

Expressing the old Scripture. 

Books, books, books ! 

I had found the secret of a garret-rocim 

Piled high with cases in my father's 
name ; 

Piled high, packed large, — where, creep- 
ing ni and out 

Among the giant fossils of my past. 

Like some small nimble mouse between 
the ribs 

Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and 
there • 

At this or that box, pulling through the 
gap, 

In heats of terror, haste, victorious jov, 

The fir.<;t book first. And how I felt it 
bear 

Under my pillow- in the mdrning's dark. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



An !iour before the sun would let me 
read ! 

My booUs ! 

At last, because the time was ripe, 

I chanced upon the poets. 

As the earth 

Plunges in fury, when the internal fires 

Have reached and pricked lier lieart, 
and, throwing flat 

The marts and temples, the triumphal 
gates 

And towers ot observation, clears her- 
self 

To elemental freedom — thus, my soul. 

At poetry's divine first finger touch, 

Let go conventions and sprang up sur- 
prised. 

Convicted of the great eternities 

Before two worlds. 

What's tliis, Aurora Leigh, 

You write so of the poets, and not laugh? 

Those virtuous liars, dreamers after 
dark, 

Kxaggerators of the sun and moon, 

And soothsayers in a tea cup? 

I write so 

Of the only truth- tellers, now left to 
God, 

The only speakers of essential truth, 

()|)posed to relative, comparative. 

And temporal truths ; the only holders 

. ''y . 

His sun-skirts, through conventional 

grey glooms : 
The only teachers who instruct mankind. 
From just a shadow on a charnel wall, 
To find man's veritable stature out. 
Erect, sublime. — the measure of a man. 
And that's the measure of an angel, 

says 
The apostle. Ay, and while your com- 
mon men 
Lay telegraphs, gauge railroads, reign, 

reap, dine. 
And dust the flaunty carpets of the world 
For kings to walk on, or our president, 
I'he poet suddenly will catch them up 
With his voice like a thunder , . ' This 
^ is soul, 
I'his is life, this word is being said in 

heaven, 
Here's God down on us ! what are you 

about ?' 
How all those workers start amid their 

work, 



Look round, look up, and feel, a mo- 
ment's s|)ace. 

That carpet-dusting, though a pretty 
trade. 

Is not the imperative labour after all. 

My own best poets, am I one with you, 
That thus I love you, — or but one 

through love ? 
Does all this smell of thvme about my 

feet 
Conclude iny visit to your holy hill 
In personal presence, or but testify 
The rustling of your vesture through my 

drennis 
With influent odours? When my joy 

and pain. 
My thought and aspiration, like the 

stops 
Of pipe or flute, are absolutely dumb 
Unless melodious, do you play on me. 
My pipers, — and if, sooth, vou did not 

blow. 
Would no sound come ? or is the music 

mine. 
As a man's voice or breath is called his 

own, 
Imbreathed by the Life-breather? 

There's a doubt 
For cloudy seasons ! 

But the sun was high 
When first I felt my pulses set them- 
selves 
For concord; when the rhythmic turbu- 
lence 
Of blood and brain swept outward upon 

words, 
As wind upon the alderSj blanching 

them 
By turning up their under-natures till 
Tiiey trembled in dilation. O delight 
Ami triumph of the poet, — who would 

say 
A man's inere 'yes,' a woman's common 

' no,' 
A little huinan hope of that or this, 
And .says the word so that it burns you 

through 
With a special revelation, shakes the 

heart 
Of all the men and women in the world. 
As if one came back from the dead and 

spoke, 
With eyes too happy, a familiar thing 




" Books, books, books! 
I had found tlie secret of a garret-room 
Piled high with cases in my father's name.' 



AUROKA 


« 
LEIGH. 3-53 


Become divine i' the utterance ! while 


The thing's too common. 


for him 


Many fervent souls 


The poet, speaker, he expands with 


Strike rhyme on rhyme, who would strike 


i°y '■ . . 


steel on steel 


Tlie palpitating angel in his flesh 


If steel had offered, in a restless heat 


'I'hrills iiilj' with consentinj; fellowship 


Of doing something. Many tender souls 


To those innunierous spirits who sun 


Have strung their losses on a rhyming 


themselves 


thread, 


Outside of time. 


As children, cowslips : — the more pains 


O life, poetry. 


they take. 


— Which means life in life ! cognisant of 


The work .more withers. Young men. 


life 


ay. and maids. 


Beyond this blood-beat, — passionate for 


Too often sow their wild oats in tame 


truth 


verse. 


Bevond these senses, — poetry, my life. 


Before they sit down under their own 


My eagle, with both grappling feet still 


vine 


hot 


And live for use. Alas, near all the 


From Zeus's thunder, who has ravished 


birds 


me 


Will sing at dawn, — and yet we do not 


Away from all the shepherds, sheep, and 


take 


dogs. 


The chaffering swallow for the holy lark. 


And set me in the Olympian roar and 




round 


In those days, though, I never analysed, 


Of hiiuuious faces, for a cup bearer, 


Not even myself Analysis comes late. 


To keep the mouths of all ihe godheads 


You catch a sight of Nature, earliest, 


moist 


In full front sun-face, and your eyelids 


For everlasting laughters, — I, myself 


wink 


Half drunk across the beaker with their 


And drop before the wonder of 't ; you 


eyes ! 


miss 


How those gods look ! 


The form, through seeing the light. I 


Enough so, Ganymede. 


lived, those day.s. 


We shall not bear above a round or 


And wrote because I lived— unlicensed 


two^ 


else: 


We drop the golden cup at Here's foot 


My heart beat in my brain. Life's vio- 


And swoon back to the earth,— and find 


lent flood 


ourselves 


Abolished bounds, — and, which my 


Face-down among the pine-cones, cold 


neighbour's field. 


with dew, 


Which mine, what mattered? It is thus 


While the dogs bark, and many a shep- 


in youth 


herd scoffs. 


We play at leap-frog over the god Term ; 


' What's come now to the youth? ' Such 


The love within us and the love without 


ups and downs 


Are mi.xed. confounded ; if we are loved 


Have poets. 


M love. 


Am I such indeed? The name 


We scarce distinguish : thus with other 


Is royal, and to sign it like a queen, 


power ; 


Is wliat I dare not,— thougli some royal 


Being acted on and acting seem the 


blood 


same: 


Would seem to tingle in me now and 


In that first onrush of life's chariot- 


then, 


wheels, 


With sense of power and ache,— with 


We know not if the forests move or we. 


imposthumes 




And manias usual to the race. How- 


And so, like most young poets, iu a 


beit 


flush 


* dare not : 'tis too easy to go mad. 


Of individual life I poured myself 


%nti ape a Bourbon in a crown ot straws ; 


Along the veins of others, and achieved 





336 ■ AURORA 


LEIGH. 


Mere lifeless imitations of live verse, 


\ 
By Keat's soul, the man who never 


And made the living answer for tlie 


stepped 


dead, 


In gradual progress like another man, 


Profaning nature. ' Touch not, do not 


But, turning grandly on his central self, 


taste, 


Ensphered himself in twenty perfect 


Nor handle,' — we're too legal, who write 


years, 


young : 


And died, not young, — (the life of a long 


We beat the phorniinx till we hurt our 


life. 


thumbs, 


Distilled to a mere drop, falling like a 


As if still ignorant of counterpoint ; 


tear 


We call the Muse . . ' O Muse, benig- 


Upon the world's cold cheek to make it 


nant Muse ! '^ 


burn 


As if we had seen her purple-braided 


For ever :) by that strong excepted soul. 


head 


I count it strange, and hard to under- 


With the eyes in it, start between the 


stand 


boughs 


That neatly all young poets should write 


As often as a stag's. What make-be- 


old: 


lieve. 


That Pope was sexagenary at sixteen, 


With so much earnest ! what effete re- 


And beardless Byron academical, 


sults. 


And so with others. It may be, per- 


From virile efforts ! what cold wire- 


haps. 


drawn odes. 


Such have not settled long and deep 


From sucli white heats ! — bucolics, where 


enough 


th2 cow 


In trance, to attain toclairvovance, — and 


Would scare the writer if they splashed 


still 


the mud 


The memory mixes with the vision, 


In lashing off the flies, — didactics, driv- 


spoils. 


en 


And works it turbid. 


Against the heels of what the master 


Or perhaps, again 


said ; 


In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx, 


And counterfeiting epics, shrill with 


The melancholy desert must sweep 


trumps 


rotmd. 


A babe jnight blow between two strain- 


Behind you as before. — 


ing cheeks 


For me, I wrote 


Of bubbled rose, to make his mother 


False poems. like the rest, and thought 


laugh ; 


them true. 


And elegiac griefs, and songs of love. 


Because myself was true in writing them. 


Like cast-off nosegays picked up on the 


I peradventuve have writ tiue ones since 


road. 


With less complacence. 


The worse for being warm : all these 


Btit I could not hide 


things, writ 


My quickening inner life from those at 


On happy mornings, with a morning 


watch. 


heart. 


They saw a light at a window now and 


That leaps for love, is active for re- 


then. 


solve, 


Thev had not set there. Who had set it 


Weak for art only. Oft, the ancient 


there ? 


forms 




Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the young 


My father's sister started when she 


blood. 


caught 


The wine-skins, now and then, a little 


My soul agaze in my eyes. She could 


warped. 


not say 


Will crack even, as the new wine gurgles 


I liad no business with a sort of soul. 


in. 


But plainly she objected. — and demurred 


Spare the old bottles !— spill not the new 


Tliat souls were dangerous things to 


wine. 


carry straight 



AUKOR.-^ 


LEIGH. 337 


Throueh all ihe spilt saltpetre of the 


And said, ' We'll live, Aurora ! we'll be 


world. 


strong. 




The dogs are on us — but we will not die. 


She said sometimes, ' Aurora, have you 




done 


Whoever lives true life, will love true 


Your task this morning? — have you read 


love. 


tliat book ? 


I learnt to love that England. Very 


And are you ready for the crochet 


oft. 


here :' — 


Before the day was born, or otherwise 


As if she «aid, ' I know there's some- 


Through secret windings of the after- 


thing wrong ; 


noons, 


I know I have not ground you down 


I threw my hunters off and plunged my- 


enough 


self 


To flatten and bake you to a wholesome 


Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag 


crust 


Will take the waters, shivering with the 


For liousehold uses and proprieties. 


fear 


Before the rain has got into my barn 


And passion of the course. And when 


And set the grains a-sprouting. What, 


at last 


you're green 


Escaped, — so many a green slope built 


With out-door impudence ? you almost 


on slope 


grow ? ' 


Betwixt me and the enemy's house be- 


To which I answered, ' Would she liear 


hind. 


my task, 


I dared to rest, or wander, — in a rest 


And verify my abstract of llie book ? ' 


Made sweeter for the step upon the 


Or should I sit down to the crochet 


grass,— 


work ? 


And view the ground's most gentle dim- 


Was such her pleasure?' . . Then I 


plement. 


sate and teased 


(As if God's finger touched but did not 


The patient needle till it spilt the thread 


press 


Which oozed off from it in meandering 


In making England) such an up and 


lace 


down 


From liour to hour. I was not, there- 


Of verdure,— nothing too mucli up or 


fore, sad : 


down. 


My soul was singing at a work apart 


A ripple of land ; such little hills, the 


Behind the wall of sense, as safe from 


sky 


harm 


Can stoop to tenderly and the wheatfields 


As sings the lark when sucked up out of 


climb ; 


sight, 


Such nooks of valleys, lined with orchi- 


In vortices of glory and blue air. 


ses. 




Fed full of noises by invisible streams ; 


And so, through forced work and spon- 


And open pastures, where you scarcely 


taneous work. 


lell 


The inner life informed the outer life, 


Wiiite daisies from white dew, — at inter- 


Reduced llie irregular blood to settled 


vals 


rhythms, 


The mythic oaks and elm-trees standing 


Made cool the forehead with fresh- 


out 


sprinkling dreams. 


Self-poised upon their prodigy of shade, — 


And, rounding to the spheric soul the 


I thought my father's land was worthy 


thin 


too 


Pined body, struck a colour up the 


Of being my Shakspeare's. 


cheeks, 


Very oft alone. 


Though somewhat faint. I clenched my 


Unlicensed ; not unfreqnently with leave 


brows across 


To walk tlie third with Romney and his 


My blue eyes greatening in the looking- 


friend 


glass, 


The rising painter, Vincent Carrington, 



33S 



AUAOJ^A LEIGH. 



Whom men judge hardly as bee-bon- 
neted. 
Because he holds that, paint a body 

well, 
You paint a soul by implication, like 
The grand first Master. Pleasant 

walks ! fiar if 
He said . . ' When I was last in Ita- 

ly'.. 
It sounded as an nistrument that's 

played 
Too lar off for the tune — and yet it's 

fine 
To Hsten. 

Ofter we walked only two, 
If cousin Koniney pleased to walk with 

me. 
We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it 

chanced: 
We were not lovers, nor even friends 

well-matched. 
Say rather, scholars upon different 

tracks, 
And thinkers disagreed : he, overfull 
Of what is, and I, haply, overbold 
For what might be. 

I'ut then the thrushes sang. 
And sliook my pulses and tlie elms' new 

leaves, — 
At which I turned, and held my finger 

up, -— 

And bade liim mark that, howsoe'er the 

world 
Went ill, as he related, certainly 
Tlie thrushes still sang in it. At the 

word 
His brow would soften, — and he bore 

with me 
In melancholy patience, not unkind. 
While breaking into voluble ecstacy 
I flattered all the beauteous country 

round. 
All poets use . . the skies, the clouds, 

the fields, 
Tlie happy violets hiding from the roads 
The prinuoses run down to, carrying 

gold. 
The tangled hedgerows, where the cows 

push out 
Impatient horns and tolerant churning 

mouths 
'Tvvixt dripping ash-boughs, — hedgerows 

all alive 
With birds and gnats and large white 

butterflies 



Which look as if the May-flower had 
caught life 

And palpitated forth upon the wind. 

Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver 
mist. 

Farms, granges, doubled up among the 
hills. 

And cattle grazing in the watered vales. 

And cottage chimneys smoking from the 
woods. 

And cottage-gardens smelling every- 
where. 

Confused with smell of orchards. 'See,' 
1 said, 

' And see ! is God not with us on the 
earth ? 

And shall we put him down by aught we 
do? 

Who says there's nothing for tlie poor 
and vile 

Save poverty and wickedness ? behold ! ' 

And ankle-deep in English grass I leap- 
ed. 

And clapped my hands, and called all 
very fair. 

In the begiiming when God called all 

good, 
Even then was evil near us, it is writ. 
But we indeed who call things good and 

fair. 
The evil is upon us while we speak ; 
Deliver us fiora evil, let us pray. 



SECOND BOOK. 

Times followed one another. Came a 

morn 
I stood upon the brink of twenty years. 
And looked before and after, as I stood 
Woman and artist, — either incomplete. 
Both credulous of completion. There I 

held 
The whole creation in my little cup. 
And smiled with thirsty lips before I 

drank 
' Good health to you and me, sweet 

neighbour mine, 
And all these peoples.' 

I was glad, that day ; 
The Jiuie was in me, vviili its multitudes 
Of nightingales all singing in the dark. 
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx 

split. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I felt so young, so strong, so sure of 

God! 
So glad, I could not choose be very wise ! 
And, o!d at twenty, was inclined to pull 
My childhood backward in a childish 

jesi 
To see the face oft once more, and fare- 
well 1 
In which fantastic mood I bounded forth 
At early morning, — would not wait so 

long 
As even to snatch my bonnet by the 

strings. 
But, brushing a green trail across the 

lawn 
With my gown in the dew, took will and 

way 
Among the acacias of the shrubberies. 
To fly my fancies in the open air 
And keep my birthday, till my aunt 

awoke 
To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I 

murmured on 
As honeyed bees keep humming to them- 
selves : 
'The worthiest poets have remained un- 

crovi-ned 
Till death has bleached their foreheads to 

the bone, 
And so with me it must be, unless I 

prove 
Unworthy of the grand adversity, 
And certainly I would not fail so much. 
Wliat, therefore, if 1 crown myselt to-day 
In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it. 
Before my brows be numbed as Dante's 

own 
To all the tender pricking of such 

leaves ? 
Such leaves ! what leaves ? ' 

I pulled the brandies down, 
To choose from. 

' Not the bay ! I choose no bay ; 
The fates deny us if we are overbold : 
Nor myrtle — which means chiefly love : 

and love 
Is something awful which one dares not 

touch 
So early o' mornings. This verbena 

strains 
The point of passionate fragrance ; and 

hard by. 
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck 
Of the wind, will toss about her flower- 
apples. 



Ah -there's my choice, — that ivy on the 

wall. 
That headlong ivy ! not a leaf will grow 
But thinking of a wreath. Large leaves, 

smooth leaves. 
Serrated like my vines, and half as green. 
I like such ivy ; bold to leap a height 
'Twas strong to climb ! as good to grow 

on graves 
As twist about a thyrsus ; pretty too, 
(And that's not ill) when twisted round a 

comb.' 
Tints speaking to myself, half singing it, 
Because some thoughts are fashioned 

like a bell 
To ring with once being touched, I drew 

. a wreath 
Drenched, blinding me with dew, across 

my brow 
And fastening it behind so, . . turning 

faced 
. . My public ! — cousin Romney — with 

a mouth 
Twice graver than his eyes. 

I stood there fixed— 
My arms up, like the caryatid, sole 
Of some abolished temple, helplessly 
Persistent in a gesture which derides 
A former purpose. Yet my blush was 

flame, 
As if from flax, not stone. 

' Aurora Leigh, 
The earliest of Am'ora's ! ' 

Hand stretched out 
I clasped, as shipwrecked men will clasp 

a hand, 
Indifferent to the sort of palm. The 

tide 
Had caught meat my p.astime, writing 

down 
My foolish name too near upon the sea 
Which drowned me with a blush as fool- 
ish. ' You, 
My cousin I ' 

The smile died out in his eyes 
And dropped upon his lips, a cold dead 

weight, 
For just a moment . . ' Here's a book 

I found ! 
No name writ on it — poems, by the 

form ; 
Some Greek upon the margin, — lady's 

Greek, 
Without the accents. Read it? Not a 

word. 



34° 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I saw at once the thing had witchcraft 

in't. 
Whereof the reading calls up dangerous 

spirits : 
I ratlier bring it to tlie witcli.' 

' My book ! 
You found it ' . . 

' In the liollow by the stream 
That beach leans down into — of which 

j'ou said 
The Oread in it has a Naiad's heart 
And pines for waters.' 

' Tliank you.' 

' Thanks to you. 
My cousin 1 that I have seen you not too 

much 
Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and the 

rest. 
To be a woman also.' 

VVi<h a glance 
The smile rose in liis eyes again, and 

touched 
The ivy on my forehead, light as air. 
I answered gravely, ' Poets needs must 

be 
Or men or women — more's the pily' 

• Ah, 
But men, and still less women, happily, 
Scarce need be poets. Keep to the 

green wreath. 
Since even dreaming of the stone and 

bronze 
Brings headaches, pretty cousin, and 

defiles 
The clean white morning dresses.' 

' So you judge ! 
Because I love the beautitnl, I must 
Love pleasure chiefly, and be over- 
charged 
For ease and whiteness. Well — you 

know the world, 
And only miss your cousin ; 'lis not 

much. 
But learn this : I would rather take my 

part 
With God's Dead, who afford to walk in 

white 
Yet spread his glory, than keep quiet 

here, 
And gather up my feet from even a 

step, 
For fear to soil my gown in so much 

dust. 
I choose to walk at all risks.— Here, if 

heads 



That Iiold a rhythmic thought, must act 

perforce 
For my part I choose headaches, — and 

to-day's 
My birthday.' 

' Dear Aurora, clioose instead 
To cure them. You have balsams.' 

' I [lerceiva 
Tlie headaclie is too noble for my sen. 
You think the heartache would sound 

decenter. 
Since that's the woman's special, propef 

ache. 
And altogether tolerable, except 
To a woman.' 

Saying which, I loosed my wreath, 
And swinging it beside me as I walked. 
Half petulant, half playful, as we walked, 
I sent a sidelong look to find his 

thought, — 
As falcon set on falconer's finger may, 
With sidelong head, and startled, braving 

eye, 
Which means, ' You'll see— you'll see ! 

I'll soon take flight — 
You shall not hinder.' He, as shaking 

out 
His hand and answering, ' Fly then,' did 

not speak. 
Except by such a gesture. Silently 
We paced, until, just coming into sight 
Of the house-windows, he abruptly 

caught 
At one end of the swinging wreath, and 

said, 
Aurora !' There I stopped short, breath 

and all. 

' Aurora, let's be serious, and throw by 
This game of head and heart. Life 

means, be sure. 
Both licart and head, — both active, both 

complete, 
And both in earnest. Men and women 

make 
The world, as head and heart make 

human life. 
Work man, work woman, since there's 

work to do 
In this beleaguered earth, for head and 

heart. 
And tlionght can never do the work of 

love : 
But work for ends, I mean for uses r 

not 



AURORA LEIGH. 



341 



For such sleek fringes (do you call them 

ends : 
Still less God's glory) ^3 we sew our- 
selves 
Upon tile velvet of those baldaquins 
Held 'twixt us and the sun. That book 

of yours, 
I have not read a page of; but I toss 
A rose up— it falls calyx down, you see ! 
The chances are that, being a woman, 

young. 
And pure, with such a pair of large, calm 

eyes. 
You write as well . . and ill . . upon the 

whole, 
As other women. If as well, what then ? 
If even a little better, . . still what then? 
We want the Best in art now, or no art. 
The time is done for facile settings up 
Of minnow gods, nymphs here and 

tritons there ; 
The polytheists have gone out in God, 
That unity of Bests. No best, no God ! 
And so with art, we say. Give art's 

divine. 
Direct, indubitable, real as grief — 
Or leave us to the grief we grow our- 
selves 
Divine by overcoming with mere hope 
And most prosaic patience. You, you 

are young 
As Eve with nature's daybreak on her 

face ; 
But this same world you are come to, 

dearest coz, 
Has done wiih keeping birthdays, saves 

her wreaths 
To hang upon her ruins, — and forgets 
To ryhnie the cry with which she still 

beats back 
Those savage, hungry dogs that hunt her 

down 
To the empty grave ot Christ. The 

world's hard pressed ; 
The sweat of labour in ilie early curse 
Has (turning acrid in six thousand years) 
Become the sweat of torune. Who has 

time, 
An hour's time . . think ! . . to sit up- 
on a bank 
And hear the cymbal tinkle in white 

hands? 
When -Egypt's slain, I r.ny, let Miriam 

sinj ! — 
Before . . wliore's Moses?' 



' Ah — exactly that 
Where's Moses ? — is a Moses to be 

found ? 
You'll seek him vainly in the bulrushes, 
While 1 in vain touch cymbals. Yet 

concede. 
Such sounding brass has done some ac- 
tual good 
(The application in a woman's hand. 
If that were credible, being scarcely 

spoilt,) 
In colonising beehives.' 

■ There it is ! — 
You play beside a death-bed like a child, 
Yet measure to yourself a prophet's 

place 
To teach the living. None of all these 

things. 
Can women understand. You generalise 
Oh, nothing! -not even grief! Your 

quick-breathed hearts. 
So sympathetic to the personal pang, 
Close on each separate knife-stroke, 

yielding up 
A whole life at each wound ; incapable 
Of deepening, widening a large lap of 

life 
To hold the world-full woe. The human 

race 
To you means, such a child, or such a 

man, 
You snw one morning waiting in the 

cold. 
Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather 

"P 

A few such cases, and when strong some- 
times 

Will write of factories and of slaves, as 
if 

Your father were a negro, and your son 

A spiinier in the mills. All's yours and 
you. 

All, coloured with your blood, or other- 
wise 

Just nothing to you. Why, I call you 
hard 

To general suffering. Here's the world 
halt blind 

With intellectual light, half brulalised 

With civilisation, having caught the 
plague 

In silks from Tarsus, shrieking eas. and 
west 

Along a thousand railroads, mad wuh 
pain 



342 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And sin too ! . . does one woman of you 

all, 
(Yoii who weep easily) grow pale to see 
I'liis tiger shake his cage ? — does one of 

you 
Stand still from dancing, stop from 

stringing pearls. 
And pine and die because of the great 

sum 
Of universal anguish? — Show me a tear 
Wet as Cordelia's, in eyes bright as 

yours, 
Because the world is mad ! You cannot 

count, 
'I'hat you should weep for this account, 

not you ! 
You weep for what you know. A red- 
haired child 
Sick in a fever, if you touch him once. 
Though but so little as with a finger-tip, 
Will set you weeping ; but a million 

sick . . 
You could as soon weep for the rule of 

three. 
Or compound fractions. Therefore, this 

same world 
Uncomprehended by you. must remain 
Uninfluenced by you. Women as you 

are. 
Mere women, personal and passionate. 
You give us doating mothers, and perfect 

wives, 
Subliine Madonnas, and enduring saints ! 
We get no Christ from you, — and verily 
We shall not get a poet, in my mind.' 

' With which conclusion you conclude ' . . 

' But this— 

That you, Aurora, with the large live 

brow 
And steady eyelids, cannot condescend 
To play at art, as children play at 

swords. 
To show a pretty spirit, chiefly admired 
Because true action is impossible. 
Yon never can be satisfied with praise 
Which men give women when they judge 

a book 
Not as mere work, but as mere woman's 

work, 
Expressing the comparative respect 
Which means the absolute scorn ' Oh, 

excellent ! 
' What grace ! wliat facile turns ! what 

fluent sweeps I 



' What delicate discernment . . almost 

, thought ! 
' The book daes honour to the sex, we 

hold. 
' Among our female authors we make 

room 
' For this fair writer, and congratulate 
' The country that produces in these 

times 
' Such women, competent to . . sj^ell.' 

' Stoii tliere ! ' 
I answered — burning througli his thread 

of talk 
With a quick flame of emotion, — ' You 

liave read 
My soul, if not my book, and aigue 

well 
I would not condescend . . we will not 

say 
To such a kind of praise, (a worthless 

end 
Is praise of all kinds) but to such a use 
Of holy art and golden hie. 1 am 

young, 
And peradventure weak — you tell me 

so — 
Through being a woman. And, for all 

the rest. 
Take thanks for justice. I would rather 

dance 
At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies 

dropped 
Their gingerbread for joy, — than shift 

the types 
For tolerable verse, intolerable 
'J'o men who act and suffer, lietter far 
Pursue a frivolous trade by serious 

means. 
Than a sublime art frivolously.' 

' You 
Choose nobler work than either, O moist 

eyes 
And hurrying lips, and heaving heart ! 

We are young, 
Aurora, you and I. The world . . look 

round . . 
'I'lie world, we're come too late, is sunl- 

len hard 
With perished generations t.wA their 

sins : 
The civiiiser's spade grinds lioi i ibly 
On dead men's bones, and c^u.i.ot turn 

up soil 
That's otherwise than fetid. All suc- 
cess 



AURORA LEIGH. 



343 



Proves partial failure ; all advance im- 
plies 
Wliat's left behind; all triiimpli, some- 
thing cruslied 
At the cli.iriot-wheels ; all government, 

some wrong : 
And rich men make the poor, who curse 

the rich, 
Who agonise together, lich and poor, 
Under and over, in tlis social spasm 
And crisis of the ages. Here's an age. 
That makes its own vocation I iiere, we 

have stepped 
Across the bonnds of time ! here's 

nongln to see. 
But just llie ricli man and inst Lazarus, 
And both in torments; with a mediate 

gulph. 
Though not a hint of Abraham's bosom. 

^ Who, 
Being man, Aurora, can stand calmly by 
Aud view these things, and never tease 

his soul 
For some great cure ? No physic for 

this grief, 
In all t'ne earth and he,avens too?' 

' You believe 
In God, for your part?— ay? that He 

who makes, 
Can make good things from ill things, 

best from worst. 
As men plant tulips upon dunghills 

when 
They wish them finest?' 

' True. A death-heat is 
The same as life-heat, to be accurate ; 
And in all nature is no dealli at all. 
As men account of death, as long as God 
Stands witnessing for life perpetually. 
By being just God. That's abstract 

truth. I know. 
Philosophy, or sympathy with God : 
But I, I sympathise with man, not God, 
I think I was a man for chiefly this; 
And when I stand beside a dying bed. 
It's death to me. Observe, — it had not 

mucli 
Consoled the race of mastodons to know 
Before lliev went to fossil, that anon 
Their place would quicken with the ele- 
phant ; 
They were not elephants but mastodons: 
And I, a man as men are now and not 
As men may be hereafter, feel with men 
In the agonising present.' 



' Is it so,' 
I said, ' my cousin ? is the wor'd so bad, 
While I hear jiothing of it through the 

trees ? 
The world was always evil, — but so bad ?' 

' So bad, Aurora. Dear, my soul is grey 
With poring over the long sum of ill ; 
So much for vice, so much for discontent, 
So much tor the necessities of power, 
So much for the connivances of fear. 
Coherent in statistical despairs 
With such a total of distracted life, . . 
To see it down in figures on a page, 
Plain, silent, clear , . as God sees 

through the earth 
The sense of all the graves .... that's 

terrible 
For one who is not God, and cannot 

right 
The wrong he looks on. May I choose 

indeed 
But vow away my years, my means, my 

aims. 
Among the helpers, if there's any help 
In such a social strait? The common 

blood 
That swings along my veins, is strong 

enough 
To draw me to this duty.' 

Then I spoke. 
' I have not stood long on the strand of 

life, 
And these salt waters have had scarcely 

time 
To creep so liigh up as to wet my feet. 
1 cannot judge these tides — I shall, per- 
haps. 
A woman's always younger than a man 
At equal years, because she is disallowed 
Maturing by the outdoor sun and air, 
And kept in long-clothes past the age to 

walk. 
Ah well, I know you men judge other- 
wise ! 
You think a woman ripens as a peach. 
In the cheeks, chiefly. Pass it to me 

now ; 
I'm young in age, and vounger still, I 

think. 
As a woman. But a child may say 

amen 
To a bishop's prayer and feel the way it 

goes ; 
And I, incapable to loose the knot 



3'i4 



Al/JvOKA LElGir. 



Of social questions, can approve, applaud 
August ctmipassion, christian thoughts 

tll.Tt Khoot 
l!eyoiul the vulgar whi'te of personal 

aims. 
Accept my reverence.' 

There he glowed on me 
With all his face and eyes. ' No other 

_ help?' 
Said he — ' no more than so ?' 

' What help?' I asked, 
' You'd scorn my help, — as ^Jature's self, 

you say, 
Has scorned to put her music in my 

mouth 
Because a woman's. Do you now turn 

round 
And ask for what a woman cannot give?' 

' For what she only can,' I turn and ask. 
He answered, catching up my hands in 

his, 
And dropping on me from his high-eaved 

brow 
The full weight of his soul, — ' I ask for 

love, 
And tli.it, she can ; for life in fellowship 
Through bitter duties — that, I know she 

can ; 
For wifehood . . will she ? ' 

' Now,' I said. ' may God 
Be witness 'twixt, us two ! ' and with the 

word, 
Meseenied I floated into a sudden light 
Above his stature, — ' am I proved too 

weak 
To stand alone, yet strong enough to 

bear 
Such learers on my shoulder? poor to 

tliiiil-. 
Yet rich enough to sympathise with 

ihouglit? 
Incompelent to sing, as blackbirds can, 
Yet competent to love, like him ? ' 

I paused : 
Peihaps I darkened, as the light house 

will 
Th.it turns upon the sea. ' It's always 

so ! 
Anything does for a wife.' 

'Aurora, dear. 
And dearly honored' . . he pressed in 

at oiice 
With eacer utterance, —' you translate 

nie ill. 



I do not contradict my thought of you 
Which is most reverent, with ar.ollitr 

thought 
Foui d less so. If your sex is weak for 

art, 
(.'Vnd I wlio said so, did but honour you 
By using truth in couriship) it is strong 
For life and duty. Place your fecund 

heart 
In mine, and let us blossom for the world 
That wants love's colour in the grey of 

time. 
My talk, meanwhile, is arid to you, ay, 
.Since all my talk can only set you where 
You look down coldly on the arena- 
heaps 
Of headless bodies, shapeless, indistinct I 
The Judgment- Angel scarce would find 

his May 
Through such a heap of generalised dis- 
tress 
To the individual man with lips and 

eyes — 
Much less Aurora. Ah my sweet, come 

down, 
And hand in hand we'll go where yours 

shall touch 
These victims, one by one I till one by 

one, 
The formless, nameless trunk of every 

man 
Shall seem to wear a liead with hair you 

know. 
And every woman catch your mother's 

face 
To melt you into passion.' • 

' I am a girl,' 
T answ^ered slowly; ' you do well to name 
My mother's face. Though far too ear- 
ly, alas, 
God's hand did interpose 'twixt it and 

me, 
I know so much of love, as used to ^hine 
In that face and another. Jusi so nuicli : 
No more indeed at all. I liave not .st-i-n 
So much love since, I pray you pardon 

me. 
As answers even to make a marriage 

with 
In this cold land of Englai.d. What \c u 

love. 
Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause: 
You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sir, 
A wife to help your ends . . in her iic 
end ! 



AURORA LEIGH. 



3*5 



Your cause is noble, your ends excellent, 
But I, being most un'vorthy of these and 

that, 
Do oiherwise conceive of love. Fare- 
well.' 

' Farewell, Aurora? you reject me thus? ' 
He said. 

' Sir, you were married long ago, 
You have a wife already whom you love, 
Your social theory. Bless you both, I 

say. 
For my part, I am scarcely meek enough 
To be the handmaid of a lawful spouse. 
Do I look a Hagar, tnink you ? ' 

' So you jest ! ' 
' Nay so, I speak in earnest,' I replied. 
' You treat of marriage too much like, at 

least, 
A chief apostle ; you would bear with 

you 
A wife . . a sister . . shall we speak it 

out? 
A sister of charity.' 

' Then, must it oe 
Indeed farewell ? And was I so far 

wrong 
In hope and i;i illusion, when I took 
The woman to be nobler than the man. 
Yourself the noblest woman, — in the 

use 
And comprehension of what love is, — 

love, 
That generates the likeness of itself 
Through all heroic duties ? so far wrong, 
In paying bluntly, venturing truth on 

love, 
'Come, human creature, love and work 

with me,' — 
Instead ot ' Lady, thou art wondrous 

fa i r. 
' And. where the Graces walk before, the 

M use 
' Will follow at the lighting ot the eyes, 
' And where the Muse walks, lovers 

need to creep : 
' Turn roinid and love me, or I die of 

love.' ' 

\V.i''. quiet indignation I broke in. 

' Voa misconceive the question like a 

man, 
"Who sees a woman as the complement 
(y his sex merely. Voil forget too much 
I'li.u every creature, female as the male. 



Stands single in responsible act and 

thought. 
As also in birth and death. Whoever 

says 
To a loyal woman, ' Love and work with 

me,' 
Will get fair answers it' the work and 

love. 
Being good themselves, are good for her 

— the best 
She was born for. Women of a softer 

mood. 
Surprised by men when scarcely awake 

to life. 
Will sometimes only hear the first word, 

love. 
And catch up with it any kind of work, 
Indifferent, so that dear love go with it: 
I do not blame such women, though, for 

love. 
They pick much oakum ; earth's fanatics 

make 
Too frequently heaven's saints. But jiie, 

your work 
Is not the best for, — nor your love the 

best. 
Nor able to commend the kind of work 
For love's sake merely. Ah, you force 

me, sir. 
To be over-bold in speaking of myself, 
I too have my vocation, — work to do. 
The heavens and earth have set me, 

since I changed 
My fathers face for theirs, — and, though 

your world 
Were twice a^ wretched as you represent. 
Most serious work, most necessary work 
As any of the economists'. Reform, 
Make trade a Christian possibility. 
And individual right no general wrong; 
Wipe out earth's furrows of the Tiiine 

and Mine, 
And leave one green for men to play at 

bowls ; 
With innings for lliem all I . . what then, 

indeed. 
If mortals are not greater by the head 
Than any of their prosperities ? what 

then. 
Unless the artist keep up open roads 
Betwixt the seen and unseen, — bursting 

through 
The best of your conventions with his 

best, 
The sjieakable, imaginable best 



346 



AURORA LEIGH. 



God bids him speak, to prove what lies 

beyond 
Both speech and imagination? A starved 

man ' 

Exceeds a fat beast : Vi'e'll not bartSr, 

sir. 
The beautifnl for barley. — And, even so, 
I hold yoii will not compass your poor 

ends 
Of barley-feeding and material ease, 
Without a poet's individualism 
To work your universal. It takes a 

soul 
To move a body : it takes a high-souled 

man 
To move the masses . . even to a clean- 
er £tye; 
It takes the ideal, to blow a hair's-breadth 

off 
The dust of the actual. — Ah, your Four- 

iers failed, 
Because not poets enough to understand 
That life develops from within. — For 

me. 
Perhaps I am not worthy, as you say, 
Of work like this . . perhaps a woman's 

soul 
Aspires, and not creates: yet we aspire, 
And yet I'll try out your perhapses, sir; 
And if I fail . . why, burn me up my 

straw 
Like other false works— I'll not ask for 

giace, 
Your scorn is better, cousin Roniney. I 
Who love my art, could never wish it 

lower 
To suit my stature. I may love my art. 
You'll grant that even a woman may love 

art, 
Seeing that to waste true love on any- 
thing 
Is womanly, past question.' 

I retain 
'I'he very last word which I said that 

day, 
As you the creaking of the door, years 

jiast, 
Which let upon you such disabling news 
You ever after have been graver. He, 
His eyes, the motions in his silent mouth, 
Were fiery points on which my, words 

were caught. 
Transfixed lor ever in my memory 
For his sake, not their own. And yet I 
know 



I did not love him . . nor he me . . that's 

sure . . 
And what 1 said, is unrepented of 
As truth is always. Yet . . a princely 

man 1 — 
If hard to me, heroic for himself! 
He bears down on me ihiough the slant- 
ing years, 
The slronyer for the distance. If he 

had loved, 
Ay, loved me, with that retributive 

face, . . 
I might have been a common woman 

now. 
And happier, less known and less left 

alone ; 
Perhaps a better vi'oman after all, — 
With chubby children hanging on my 

neck 
To keep me low and wise. Ah me, the 

vines 
That bear such fruit, are proud to stoop 

with it. 
The palm stands upright in a realm of 

sand. 

And I, who spoke the truth then, stand 

upright. 
Still worthy of having spoken out the 

truth, 
By being content I spoke it, though it set 
Him there, me here. — O woman's vile 

remor.se. 
To hanker after a mere name, a sh.ow, 
A supposition, a potential love I 
Does every man who names love in our 

lives. 
Become a power for that ? is love's true 

thing 
So much besf to us, that what personates 

love 
Is next best ? A potential love, for- 
sooth ! 
I'm not so vile. No, no— he cleaves, I 

think. 
This man, this image, . . chiefly for the 

wrong 
And shock he gave my life, in finding me 
Precisely where the devil of my youth 
Had set me, on those mountain-peaks of 

hope 
All glittering with the dawn-dew, all 

erect 
And famished for the noon,— exclaiming, 

while 



AURORA LEIGH. 



347 



I looked for empire and much tribute, 

' Come, 
I li.ive some worthy worlc for thee be- 
low. 
Come, sweep my barns and keep my 

hosjjitals, 
Aid [ will pa^ thee with a current coin 
W.iicli men give women.' 

As we spoke, the grass 
\V,i5 trod in haste beside us, and my 

annt. 
With smile distorted by the sun, — face, 

voice, 
A^ much at issue with the summer-day 
A-i if you brouglit a candle out of doors. 
Broke in with, ' Romney, here ! — My 

child, entreat 
Your cousin to the house, and have your 

talk. 
If girls must talk upon their birthdays. 

Come.' 

He answered for me calmly, with pale 

lips 
Th.1t seemed to motion for a smile in 

vain. 
' The talk is ended, madam, where we 

stand. 
Your brother's daughter has dismissed 

me here : 
And all my answer can be better said 
Bene.ith the trees, than wrong by such a 

word 
Your house's hospitalities. Farewell.' 

With that he vanished, I could hear 
his heel 

Riiij; bluntly in the lane, as down he 
leapt 

The short wav from us. — Then a meas- 
ured speech 

Withdrew me. ' What means this, Au- 
rora Leigh ? 

My brother's daughter has dismissed my 
guests ? ' 

The lion in me felt the keeper's voice, 
Throu;;h all its quivering dewlaps : I was 

quelled 
Before her, — meekened to the child she 

knew : 
I praved her pardon, said, ' I had little 

thoudht 
To give dismissal to a guest of hers, 
In letting go a friend of mine who came 



To take me into service as a wife, — 
No more than that, indeed.' 

' No more, no more ? 
Pray Heaven,' she answered, ' tliat I was 

not mad. 
I could not mean to tell her to her face 
That Romney Leigh had asked me for a 

wife. 
And 1 refused him ? ' 

' Did he ask? ' I said; 
' I think lie rather stooped to take me up 
For certain uses which he found to do 
For something called a wife. He never 

asked.' 

■ What stuff ! ' she answered; 'are they 

queens, these girls? 
They must have mantles, stitched with 

twenty silks. 
Spread out upon the ground, before 

they'll step 
One footstep for the noblest lover born.' 

' But I am born,' I said with firmness, 

' L 
To walk another way than his, dear 

aunt.' 

' You walk, you walk ! A babe at thir- 
teen months 

Will walk as well as you,' she cried in 
haste, 

' Without a steadying finger. Why, you 
child, 

God help you, vou are groping in the 
dark,^ 

For all this sunlight. You suDDOse, per- 
haps. 

That you, sole offspring of an opulent 
man. 

Are ricli and free to choose- a way to 
walk ? 

You think, and it's a reasonable thought, 

That I beside, being well to do in life, 

Will leave mv handful in my niece's 
hand 

When death shall paralyse these fingers? 
Prav, 

Pray, child, — albeit, I know you love me 
not. 

As if you loved me, that I may not die ! 

For when I die and leave you, out vou 
go, 

(Unless I make room for you in my 
grave) 



34S 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Unlioiised, unfed, my dear, poor broth- 
er's lamb, 

(Ah heaven, -tliat pains!) — without a 
right to crop 

A single blade of grass beneath these 
trees, 

Or cast a lamb's small shadow on the 
lawn, 

Unfed, unfolded ! Ah, my brother, 
here's 

The fruit you planted in your foreign 
loves ! — 

Ay, there's tl»e fruit he planted ! never 
look 

Astonished at me with your mother's 
eves, 

for it was they who set '^'ou where you 
are. 

An undowered orphan. Child, your 
father's choice 

Of that said mother, disinherited 

His daughter, his and hers. Men do 
not think 

Of sons and daughters, when they fall in 
love. 

So much more than of sisters; other- 
wise 

He would have paused to ponder what 
he did, 

And sli: unk before that clause in the en- 
tail 

Excluding offspring by a foreign wife 

(The clause set up a hundred years ago 

Ry a Leigh who wedded a French danc- 
ing-girl 

And had his heart danced over in re- 
turn) 

But this inan shrank at nothing, never 
thought 

Of you, Aurora, any more than me — 

Your mother must have been a pretty 
thing. 

For all the coarse Italian blacks and 
browns. 

To make a good man, which my brother 
was, 

Unchary of the duties to his house ; 

lUit so it fell indeed Our cousin Vane, 

Vane Leigh, the father of this Roinney, 
wrote 

Directly on your birth, to Italy, 

' I ask your baby daughter for my son 

In whom the entail now inerges by the 
law. 

Betroth her to us out of love, instead 



Of colder reasons, and she shall not lose 
By love or law from henceforth ' — so he 

wrote ; 
A generous cousin, was my cousin Vane. 
Remember how he drew you to liis knee 
The vear you came here, just before lie 

died. 
And hollowed out his hands to hold your 

cheeks. 
And wished them redder,— you remem- 
ber Vane ? 
And now his son who represents our 

house 
And holds the fiefs and manors in his 

place. 
To whom reverts my pittance when I 

die, 
(Except ? few books and a pair of 

shawls) 
The boy is generous like him, and pre- 
pared 
To carrv out his kindest word and 

thought 
To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine young 

man 
Is Romney Leigh ; although the sun of 

youth 
Has shone too straight upon his brain, I 

know. 
And fevered him with dreams of doing 

good 
To good-for-nothing people. But wife 
Will put all right, and stroke his temples 

cool 
With healthy touches ' . . 

I broke in at that. 
I could not lift my heavy heart to b-ealhe 
Till then, but then I raised it, and it I'ell 
In broken words like these — ' No need 

to wait. 
The dream of doing good to . . me, at 

least. 
Is ended, witliout waiting for a wife 
To cool the fever for him. We've escap- 
ed 
That danger . . thank Heaven for it.' 

' Vou.' she cried. 
' Have got a fever. \\'hat, I talk and 

talk 
An liour long to you, — I instruct you 

how 
You cannot eat or drink or stand or sit, 
Or even die, like any decent wretch 
In all this unroofed and unfurnished 

world, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



349 



Without your cousin, — and yon still 

maintain 
There's room 'twixt liim and yon, for 

flirting tans 
And running knots in eyebrows ! You 

must liave 
A pattern lover sighing on his knee: 
You do not count enougli a noble lieart. 
Above book-patterns, which this very 

morn 
Unclosed itself in two dear fathers' 

names 
To embrace your orphaned life ! fie, fie ! 

But slay, 
I write a word, and counteract this sin.' 

She would liav2 turned to leave me, but 

I cknig. 
' O sweet my father's sister, hear my 

word 
Before you write yours. Cousin Vane 

did well, 
And cousin Romney well, — and I well 

too, 
In casting back with all my strength and 

will 
The good they meant me. O my God, 

my God ! 
God meant me good, too, when he hin- 
dered me 
From saying 'yes ' this morning. If you 

write 
A word, it shall be ' no.' I say no, no ! 
I tie up 'no ' upon His altar-horns, 
Qaite out of reach of perjury ! At least 
My soul is not a pauper ; I can live 
At least my soul's life, without alms from 

men ; 
And if it must be in heaven instead of 

earth. 
Let heaven look to it, — I am not afraid.' 

She seized my hands wilh both hers, 

strained them fast, 
And drew her probing and unscrupulous 

eyes 
Right through me. body and heart. ' Yet, 

foolish Sweet, 
You love this man. I have watched you 

when he came. 
And when he went, and when we've 

talked of him ■ 
1 am not old for nothing ; I can tell 
The weather-signs of love — you love this 

man.' 



Girls blush sometimes because they are 

alive, 
Half wishing they were dead to save the 

shame. 
The sudden blush devours them, neck 

and brow ; 
They have drawn too near the fire of life, 

like gnats. 
And flare up bodily, wings and all. What 

then ? 
Who's sorry for a gnat . . or girl ? 

I blushed. 
I feel the brand upon my forehead now 
Strike hot. .sear deep, as guiltless men 

may feel 
The felon's iron, say, and scorn the 

mark 
Of wliat they are not. Most illogical 
Irrational nature of our womanhood. 
That bluslies one way, feels another 

way. 
And pravs, perlinps. another ! After all, 
We cannot lit; ihe equal of the male, 
Who rules his blood a little. 

For although 
I blushed indeed, as if I loved the man, 
And her incisive smile, accrediting 
That treason of false witness in my 

blush. 
Did bow me downward like a swathe of 

grass 
Below its level that struck me. — I attest 
The conscious skies and all their daily 

snns, 
I think I loved I'im not . . nor then, 

nor since . . 
Nor ever. Do we love the schoolm.is- 

ter, 
Being busy in the woods? much less, 

being poor. 
The overseer of the parish? Do we 

keep 
Our love to pay out debts with? 

White and cold 
I grew next moment. As my blood re- 
coiled 
From that imputed i^nomy, I made 
My heart great with it. Tlien, at last, I 

spoke. 
Spoke veritable words but passionate. 
Too passionate perhaps . . ground up 

with sobs 
To shapeless endings. She let fall my 

hands, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And took her smile off, in sedate dis- 

giii^t, 
As peradventure she liad touched a 

snake, — 
A dead snake, mind ! — and, turning 

roinid, replied, 
' We'll leave Italian manners, if you 

please. 
I think you had an English father, child. 
And ought to find it possible to speak 
A quiet ' yes ' or ' no,' like English girls, 
Without convulsions. In another month 
We'll take another answer . . no, or 

yes.' 
With that, she left me in the garden- 
walk. 

I had a father I yes, but long ago — 

How long it seemed that moment. Oh, 
how far. 

How far and safe, God, dost thou keep 
thy saints 

When once gone from us ! We may call 
against 

The lighted windows of thy fair June- 
heaven 

Where all the souls are happy, — and not 
one. 

Not even my father, look from work or 
play 

To ask. ' Who is it that cries after us. 

Below there, in the dusk ?' Yet former- 

•y 

He turned his face upon me quick 

enough. 
If I said 'fiither.' Now I might cry 

\ovA ; , 
The little lark reached higher with his 

song 
Than I with crying. Oh, alone, alone, — 
Not troubling any in heaven, nor any on 

earth, 
I stood there in the garden, and looked 

up 
The deaf blue sky that brings the roses 

out 
On sncli June mornings. 

Yon who keep account 
Of crisis and transition in this life. 
Set down the first time Nature says 

plain ' no ' 
'I'o some ' yes ' in you, and walks over 

you 
In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all be- 
gin 



By singing with the birds and running 

fast 
With June-days, hand in hand , but once. 

for all. 
The birds must sing against us, and the 

sun 
Strike down upon us like a friend's 

sword caught 
By an enemy to slay us. while we read 
The dear name on the blade which bites 

at us ! — 
That's bitter and convincing : after that. 
We seldom doubt that something in the 

large 
Smooth order of creation, though no 

more 
Than haply a man's footstep, has gone 

wrong. 

Some tears fell down my cheeks, and 

then I smiled, 
As those smile who have no face in the 

world 
To smile back to them. I had lost a 

friend 
In Romney Leigh ; the thing was sure — 

a friend. 
Who had looked at me most gently now 

and then. 
And spoken of my favourite books . . 

' our books ' . . 
With such a voice ! Well, voice and 

look were now 
More utterly .shut out from me, I felt. 
Than even my father's. Romney now 

\Yas turned 
To a benefactor, to a generous man. 
Who had tied himself to marry . . me, 

instead 
Of such a woman, with low timorous lids 
He lifted with a sudden word one day, 
And left, perhaps, for my sake. — Ah, 

self- tied 
By a contract, — male Iphigenia bound 
At a fatal Aulis for the winds to change, 
(But loose him — -they'll not change ;) he 

well might seem 
A little cold and dominant in love 1 
He had a right to be dogmatical. 
This poor, good Romney. Love, to him, 

was made 
A simple law-clause. If I married him, 
I would not dare to call my soul my own. 
Which so he had bought and paid for: 

every thought 



Al'ROKA LEIGH. 



351 



And every lieart-beat down there in tlie 

bill, 
Not one found honestly deductible 
From any use that pleased him ! He 

might cm 
My body into coins to give away 
Among his other paupers ; change my 

sons, 
While I stood dumb as Griseld, for black 

babes 
Or piteous foundlings ; might unques- 
tioned set 
My right hand teaching in the Ragged 

Schools, 
My left hand washing in the Public 

Baths, 
What time my angel of the _ Ideal 

stretched 
Both his to me in vain ! I could not 

claim 
The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to 

squeal, 
And take so much as pity from myself. 

Farewell, good Romney ! if I loved you 

even, 
I could but ill afford to let you be 
Si) geierous to me. Farewell, friend, 

since friend 
Bitwixt us two, forsooth, must be a 

word 
So heavily overladen. And, since help 
Must come to me from those who love 

me not. 
Farewell, all helpers— I must help my- 
self. 
And am alone from henceforth. — Then I 

stooped, 
And lifted the soiled garland from the 

earth, 
An^ set it on my head as bitterly 
As wlien the Spanish monarch crowned 

tile bones 
Of his dead love. So be it. I preserve 
That crown still, — in the drawer there ! 

'twas the first ; 
The rest are like it :— those Olympian 

crowns. 
We run for, till we lose sight of the sun 
1,1 the dust of the racing chariots 1 

After that, 
<> -fore the evening fell, I had a note 
Wliich ran, — 'Aurora, sweet Chaldean, 
you read 



My meaning backward like your eastern 

books. 
While I am from the west, dear. Read 

me now 
A little plainer. Did you hate me quite 
But yesterday? I Icved you for my part s 
I love you. If I spoke untenderly 
This morning, my beloved, pardon it; 
And comprehend me that I love you so 
I set you on the level of my soul, 
And overwashed you with the biltet 

brine 
Of some habitual thoughts. Henceforth, 

my flower. 
Be planted out of reach of any such. 
And lean the side you please, with all 

your leaves ! 
Write woman's verses and dream wo- 
man's dreams ; 
But let me feel your perfume in my 

home. 
To make my sabbath after working- 
days ; 
Bloom out your youth beside me, — be my 
wife. ' 

I wrote in answer — ' We, Chaldeans, dis- 
cern 
Still farther than we read. I know your 

heart. 
And shut it like the holy book it is. 
Reserved for mild-eyed saints to pore 

upon 
Betwi.xt their prayers at vespers. Well, 

you're right, 
I did not surely hate you yesterday ; 
And yet I do not love you enough to- 
day 
To wed you, cousin Romney. Take this 

word. 
And let it stop you as a generous man 
Frotn speaking farther. You may tease, 

indeed. 
And blow about my feelings, or my 

leaves, — 
And here's my aunt will help you with 

east winds. 
And break a stalk, perhaps, tormenting 

me : 
But certain flowers grow near as deep as 

trees. 
And, cousin, you'll not move my root, 

not you. 
With all your confluent storms. Theu 

let me grow 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Within my wayside hedge, and pass your 
way ! 

This flower has never as much to say to 
you 

As the antique tomb which said to trav- 
ellers, ■ Pause, 

' Siste, viator.' ' Ending thus, I signed. 

The next week passed in silence, so the 

■next, 
And several after : Romney did not 

come, 
Nor my aunt chide me. I lived on and 

on, 
As if my heart were kept beneath a 

glass 
And everybody stood, all eyes and ears. 
To see and hear it tick. I could not sit. 
Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it 

down. 
Not sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch 
And a sigh with it, but t felt her looks 
Still cleaving to me, like the sucking 

asp 
To Cleopatra's breast, persistently 
Through thj intermittent panlings. Be- 
ing observed. 
When ob^jervation is not sympathy. 
Is just being tortured. If she said a 

word, 
A ' thank you,' or an ' if it please you, 

dear,' 
She meint a commination, or. at best. 
An exorcism against the devildom 
Which plainly held nie. So with all the 

house. 
Susannah could not stand and twist my 

hair. 
Without such glancing at the locking- 
glass 
To see mv face there, that she missed 

the nlait. 
And John,— I never sent my plate for 

soup. 
Or did not send it. but the fooli«h John 
Resolved the problem, 'twixt his nap- 

kined thumbs, 
f )f what wa'! signified by takins; soup 
Or choosing mackerel. Neighbors who 

dropped in 
On morninc: visits, feeling a joint wrong. 
Smiled admonition, sate uneasilv. 
And talked with measured, emphasised 

reserve. 
Of parish news, like doctors to the sick. 



When not called in, — as if, with leave to 

speak. 
They might say something. Nay, the 

very dog 
Would watch me from his sun patch on 

the floor. 
In alternation with the large black fly 
Not yet in reach of snappirg. So I 

lived. 

A Roman died so : smeared with honey, 

teased 
By insects, stared to torture by the 

noon : 
And many patient souls 'neath English 

roofs 
Have died like Romans. I, in looking 

back. 
Wish oniv, now, I had bornp the plague 

of all 
With meeker spirits than we"-© rife in 

Rome. 

For, on the sixth week, the dead sea 

broke up. 
Dashed suddenly through beneath the 

heel of Him 
Who stands upon the sea and earth, and 

swears 
Time shall be nevermore. The clock 

struck line 
That morning too— no laik was out of 

time : 
The hidden farms among the hills breath- 
ed straight 
Their rn'oke toward the heaven : the 

lime nee pcarcelv stirred 
Beneath the blue weight of the cloudless 

sky, 
Thoujii still the July air came floating 

through 
The woodbine at my window, in and 

out. 
With touches of the out-door country- 
news 
For a bendirjr forehead. There I sate, 

and wished 
That morning-truce of God would last 

till eve. 
Or longer. ' .'^'eep,' I thought, ' late 

sleepers.- sleep. 
And sp.ire me yet the burden of your 

eyes.' 

Then, suddenly, a single ghastly shriek 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Tore upwards fiom the bottom of the 
house. 

Like one who wakens iu a grafj and 
slirieks. 

The stiii house seemed to shriek itself 
alive. 

And shudder through its passages and 
stairs 

With siam of doors and clash of bells. — I 
spr.ing, 

I stood up in the middle of the room, 

Aud there confronted at my chamber- 
door, 

A white face, — shivering, ineffectual lips. 

' Come, come,' they tried to utter, and I 

went ; 
As if a sho>t had drawn me at the point 
Of a fiery tinjer throu;;h the uneven dark, 
I went with ree.ing footsteps down the 

stair. 
Nor asked a question. 

There she sate, my aunt, — 
Bo't upright in the chiir lieside her bed. 
Whose pillow had no dint ! She had 

used no bed 
For that niaht s sleeping . . vet slept 

well. My God. 
The dumb derision of that grey, peaked 

face 
Concluded something grave" against tlie 

sun, 
Wliich filled the chamber with its July 

burst 
When Susan drew the curtains, ignorant 
Of who sate open-eye>l behind her. 

There 
She sate . . it sate . . we said 'she' 

yesterday . . 
And lield a letter with unbroken seal 
As Susai c-nve it to her hand last night: 
All night shi liad held it. If its news re- 
ferred 
To d ichie> <>r to dunghills, not an inch 
Siie'd b'.id.;e. 'twas obvious, for such 

wnr.h'ess i>dds, 
Nor, though the stars were suns and 

overburned 
Their spheric limitations, swallowing up 
Like wix the azure spaces, could they 

force 
Tho<e open eyes to wink once. What 

Last -'iglit 
Had left them blank and flat so, — draw- 
ing out 



The faculty of vision from the roots. 
As nothing more, worth seeing, remained 
behind? 

Were those the eyes that watched me, 

worried me ? 
That dogged me up and down tlie hours 

and days, 
A beaten, breathless, miserable soul ? 
And did I pray, a half hour back, but so, 
To escape the burden of those eyes . , 

those eyes ? 
' Sleep late," I said. — 

Why now, indeed, they sleep, 
God answers sharp aud sudden on some 

prayers, 
And thrusts the thing we have prayed for 

in our face, 
A gauntlet with a gift in't. Every wish 
Is like a prayer , . with God. 

1 had my wish, 
To read and meditate the thing 1 would. 
To fashion all my life upon my thought. 
And mari-y or not marry. Henceforth, 

none 
Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper 

me. 
Full ground-room, in this desert newly 

mide. 
For Babylon or Balbec, — when the 

breath. 
Now choked with sand, returns for build- 
ing tow^ls. 

The heir came over on the funeral day. 
And we two cousins met before the dead. 
With two pale faces. Was it death or 

hfe 
That moved us? When the will was 

read and done. 
The official guest and witnesses with- 
drawn. 
We rose up in a silence almost hard. 
And looked at one another. Then I 

said, 
' Farewell, my cousin.' 

But he touched, just touched 
My hatstrings tied for going, (at the 

door 
The carriage stood to take me) and said 

low. 
His voice a little unsteady through his 

smile, 
' Siste, viator.' 

'Is lliere time,' I asked, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



' 111 these last days of railroads, to stop 
sliort 

Like Cssar's chariot (weighing half a 
t.,n) 

On the Appian road for morals ? ' 

' I'liere is time,' 

He answered grave, ' for necessary 
words, 

Inclusive, trust me. of no epitaph 

On man or act, my cousin. We have 
read 

A will, which gives you all the personal 
goods 

And funded monies of your aunt.' 

' I thank 

Her memory for it. With three hundred 
pounds 

We buy in England even, clear standing- 
room 

To stand and work in. Only two hours 
since. 

I fancied I was poor.' 

' And cousin, still 

You're richer than you fancy. The will 
says, 

Three hiitidred f>ounds, and any otlier 
sum 

Of luhkh the said testatrix dies pos- 
sessed. 

I say slie died possessed of other sums.' 

' Dear Romney, need we chronicle the 
pence.' 

I'm richer tlian I thought — that's evi- 
dent. 

Knough so.' 

' Listen rather. You've to do 

With business and a cousin,' he resum- 
ed, 

' And both, I fear, need patience. Here's 
the fict. 

The other sinn (there is another sum, 

Unspecified in any will which dates 

After possession, yet bequeathed as 
much 

And clearly as those said three hundred 
pounds) 

Is tliirtv thousand. You will liave it 
paid 

Wiien ? where? My duty troubles you 
with words.' 

He struck the iron when the bar was 
hut; 



No wonder if my eyes sent out some 
sparks. 

' Pause there 1 I thank you. You are 
delicate 

In glosing gifts ; — but I, whs share your 
blood, 

Am rather made for giving, like your- 
self, ^ 

Than taking, like your pensioners. Fare- 
well.' 

He stopped me with a gesture of calm 

pride. 
'A Leigh,' he said, 'gives largesse and 

gives love, 
But gloses never : if a Leigh could glose. 
He wTuld not do it, moreover, to a 

L;igh, 
With blood trained up along nine centu- 
ries 
To hound and liate a lie from eyes like 

yours. 
And now we'll make the rest as clear ; 

your aunt 
Possessed these monies.' 

' You will make it clear. 
My cousin, as the honour of us both. 
Or one of us speaks vainly — that's not I. 
My aunt possesed this sum, — inherited 
From whom, and when ? bring documents, 

prove dates.' 

' Why now indeed you throw your bon- 
net ott. 

As if yon had time left for a logarithm ! 

The faiih's the want. Dear cousin, give 
me failh. 

And you sJiall walk this road with silken 
shoes. 

As clean as any lady of our house 

Supposed the proudest. Oh, 1 compre- 
hend 

The whole position from your point of 
sight. 

I oust you from your father's halls and 
lands. 

And make you poor by getting ridi — 
that's law ; 

Considering which, in common circum- 
stance. 

You would not scruple to accept from me 

Some compensation, some sufficiency 

Of income — that were justice ; but alas, 

I love you . . that's mere nature ; you 
reject 



AURORA LEIGH. 



?5:. 



My love . . tlint's nature also ; and nt 

once, 
YoLt cannot, from a suitor disalloweil, 
A hand thrown back as mine is, into 

yours 
Receive a doit, a farthing, . . not foi ihe 

world ! 
That's woman's etiquette, and obviously 
Exceeds the claim of nature, law, and 

right. 
Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see. 
The case as you conceive it, — leave you 

room 
To swee.;) your ample skirts of woman- 
hood ; 
While, standing humbly sqireezed against 

the wall, 
I own myself excluded from being just, 
Restrained from paying indubitable 

debts, 
Because denied from giving you my 

soul — 
That's my misfortune !-I submit to it 
As if, in some more reasonable age, 
'Twould not be less inevitable. Enough. 
You'll trust me, cousin, as a gentleman. 
To keep your honour, as you count it, 

pure. 
Your scruples (just as if I thought them 

wise) 
Safe and inviolate from gifts ofinine.' 

I answored mild but earnest. ' I 

believe 
In no one's honour which another keeps. 
Nor man's nor woman's. As I keep, 

myself. 
My truth and my religion, I depute 
No father, though I had one tliis side 

death. 
Nor brother, though I had twenty, much 

less you, 
'I'hough twice my cousin, and once Rom- 

ney Leigh, 
To keep tnv honour pure. You face, to- 
day, 
A man who wants instruction, mark me, 

not 
A woman who wants protect'on. As to 

a nnn. 
Show manhiyod, speak out plainly, be 

precise 
With facts and dates. My aunt inherited 
This sum, you say — ' 

' I said she died possessed 



Of this, dear cousin.' 

' Not by lieritage. 
Thank yuu : we're getting to the facts at 

last. 
Perhaps she played at commerce with a 

ship 
Which came in heavv with Australian 

geld? 
Or touched a lottery with her fms^r-end. 
Which tumbled on a sudden into her lap 
Some old Rhine tower or jirincipality ? 
Perhaps she had to do with a marine 
Sub-transatlantic railroad, which prepays 
As well as presupposes? or perhaps 
Some stale ancestral debt was at'ter-paid 
By a hundred years, and took her by 

sinprise ? — 
You shake your head, my cousin ; I guess 



' You need not guess, Aurora, ror de- 
ride, — 

The truth is not afaiJ of hurting you. 

You'll find no cause, in all your scruples, 
why 

Your aunt should cavil at a deed of gift 

' J'wixt lier and me.' 

' I thought so — ah ! a gift.' 

' You naturally thought so,' he resumed. 
' A very natural gift.' 

_ ' A gift, a gift ! 
Her individual lit'e being stranded high 
Above all want, approaclnng opulence, 
■J'oo hauglity was she to accept a gift 
Without some ultimate aim : ah, ah, I 

see, — 
A gift intended plainly for her lieirs. 
And so accepted . . if accepted . . ah, 
Indeed that might be; I am snared per- 
haps, 
Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon 

you, 
If thus you liave caught me with a cruel 
springe ? ' 

lie answered gently, ' Need you tremble 

and pant 
Like a nett>.'d lioness? is't my fault, mine. 
That you're a grand wild creatine of the 

woods. 
And hate the stall built for you? Any 

way. 
Though triply netted, need you glare at 

me ? 



3S<5 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I do not hold the cords of sucli a net ; 
You're free from me, Aurora ! ' 

' Now may God 
Deliver me from this strait ! Ihis gift 

of yours 
Was tendered . ..when? accepted . . 

when ?' I asked. 
'A month . . a fortnight since? Six 

weeks ago 
It was not tendered. By a word she 

dropped 
I know it was not tendered nor received. 
When was it? bring your dates.' 

' What matters when ? 
A half-hour ere she died, or a half-year, 
Secured the gift, maintains the heritage 
Inviolable with law. As easy pluck 
The golden stars from heaven's embroi- 
dered stole. 
To pin them on the grey side of this 

earth, 
As make you poor again, thank God.' 

' Not poor 
Nor clean a'4ain from henceforth, you 

thank God ? 
Well, sir— I ask you . . I insist at 

need . . 
Vouchsaf<^ the special date, the special 

date.' 

' The day before her death-day,' he re- 
plied, 
' The gift was in her hands. We'll find 

tliat deed, 
And certiiy that date to you.' 

As one 
Who has climbed a mountaiji-height and 

carried up 
His own heart climbing, panting in his 

throat 
With the toil of the ascent, takes breath 

at last. 
Looks back in triumph — so I stood and 

looked: 
' Dear cousin Romney, we have reached 

the top 
Of this steep question, and may rest, I 

think. 
P.ut first, — I pray you pardon, that the 

shock 
And surge of natural feeiing and event 
Had made me oblivious of acquainting 

you 
That iliis, this letter . . unread, mark, — 

still sealed, 



Was found enfolded in the poor dead 
hand : 

That spirit of hers»had gone beyond the 
address. 

Which could not find her though you 
wrote it clear, — 

I know your writing, Romney,- — recog- 
nise 

The open-hearted A, the liberal sweep 

Of the G. Now listen, — let us under- 
stand ; 

You will not find that famous deed cf 

Unless you find it in the letter here. 
Which, not being mine, I give you back. 

• — Refuse 
To take the letter ? well then — you and 

I, 
As writer and as lieiress, open it 

Together l)y your leave. Exactly so: 

Tlie words in which the noble offering's 

made. 
Are nobler still, my cousin : and. I own. 
The proudest and most delicate heart 

alive. 
Distracted from the measure of the gift 
By such a grace in giving, might accept 
Your largesse without thinking any 

more 
Of the burthen of it, than King Solomon 
Considered, when he wore his holy ring 
Charactered over witli the ineffable spell, 
How many carats of fine gold made up 
Its money- value. So, Leigh gives to 

Leigh — 
Or rather, might have given, observe ! — 

for that's 
The point we come to. Here's a proof 

of gift. 
But here's no proof, sir, of acceptancy, 
But ratlier, disproof. Death's black dust, 

being blown. 
Infiltrated through every secret fold 
Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate. 
Dried up for ever the fresh-written ink, 
Annulled the gift, disutilised the grace, 
And left these fragments.' 

As I spoke, T tore 
Tlie paper up and down, and down and 

/ nd cros.-iwise, till it fluttered from my 

hands. 
As lorest-leaves, stripped suddenly and 

rapt 
By a whirlwind on Valdarno, drop again, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



357 



Drop slow, and strew the melancholy 
ground 

Before the amazed hills . . . why, so, in- 
deed, 

I'm writing like a poet, somewhat large 

In tlie type of the image, — and exagger- 
ate 

A small thing with a great thing, topping 
it !— 

But then I'm thinking how his eyes look- 
ed . liis, 

With what despondent and surprised re- 
oroach ! 

I think the tears were in them, as he look- 
ed - 

I think the manly mouth just trembled. 
Then 

He broke the silence. 

' I may ask, perhaps, 

AUhouah no stranger . . only Komney 
Leigh, 

Which means still less . . than Vincent 
Carriiigton 

You plans iu going hence, and where you 
go. 

This cannot be a secret.' 

' All my life 

Is open to you, cousin. I go Iience 

To London, to the gathering -place of 
souU, 

To live mine straight out, vocally, iu 
books; 

Harmoniously lor others, if indeed 

A woman's soul, like man's, be wide 
enough 

To carry the whole octave (that's to 
prove) 

Or. if I fail, still purely by my.self. 

Pray God be with me, Ronuiey.' 

' Ah, poor child. 

Who fi.ijht against the mother's 'tiring 
h.iiid. 

And "-hoose the headsman's ! May God 
chan\j;e his world 

For your sake, sweet, and make it mild 
as heaven. 

And juster tlian I have found you ! ' 

Hut I paused. 

' And you, my cousin ? ' — 

1, ho said — ' you ask ' 

Vou care to ask ? Well, girls have curi- 
ous minds. 

And fain would know the end of every- 
thing. 



Of cousins, therefore, with the rest. For 
me, 

Aurora, I've iny work : you know my 
work ; 

And having missed this year some per- 
sonal hope, 

I must beware the rather that I miss 

No reasonable duty. While you sing. 

Your happy pastorals of the meads and 
trees. 

Bethink you that I go to impress and 
jjrove 

On stifled brains and deafened ears, stun- 
ned deaf. 

Crushed dull with grief, that nature sings 
itself, 

And needs no mediate poet, lute or voice, 

'I'o make it vocal. While you ask of 
men 

Your audience, I may get their leave 
perhaps 

For hungry orphans to say audibly 

' We're Iningry, see, '^for beaten and 
bullied wives 

To hold their unweaned babies up iu 
sight. 

Whom orphanage would better ; and for 
all 

To speak and claim their portion . . by 
no means 

Of the soil, . . but of the sweat in till- 
ing it, 

Since this is nov,;-a-days turned privilege. 

To have only God's curse on us, and not 
man's. 

Such work I have for doing, elbow- 
deep 

In social problems,— as you tie your 
rhymes, 

I'o draw my uses to cohere with needs 

And bring the uneven world back to its 
roinul ; 

Or. failing so much, fill up, bridge at 
least 

'I'o smoother issues, some abysmal 
cracks 

And liends of earth, intestine heats have 
made 

To keep men separate,- using story 
shifts 

or hospitals, alinsliouses, infant schools, 

And other practical stuff of partial good, 

You lovers of the lieaiitiful and whole, 

Despise by system.' 

' / despise? Tlie scora 



358 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Is yours, my cousin. Poets become such, 
Tiirou;;h scorning nothing. You decry 

tliem for 
The goud of beauty sung and taught by 

them, 
While they respect your practical partial 

good 
As being a part of beauty's self. Adieu ! 
When God helps all the workers for his 

world, 
The singers shall have help of Him, not 

last"' 

He smiled as men smile when they will 

not speak 
Because of something bitter in the 

thought ; 
And still 1 feel his melancholy eyes 
Look judgment on me. It is seven years 

since : 
I know not if 'twas pity or 'twas scorn 
Has made them so far-reachmg: judge 

it ye 
Who have had to do with pity more than 

love. 
And scorn than hatred. I am used, 

since then. 
To other ways, from equal men. But so. 
Even so, we let go hands, my cousin 

and 1; 
And, in betveen us, rushed the torrent- 
world 
To blanch our faces like divided rocks, 
And bar for ever mutual sight and touch 
E.xcept through swirl of spray and all 

that roar. 



THIRD BOOK. 

'To-day thou girdest up thy loins thv- 
self, 

And goest where thou wouldest : pres- 
ently 

(")thers shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 
' to go 

Where thou would'st not.' He spoke to 
Peter thus. 

To signify the death which he should die 

When crucified head downwards. 

If He spoke 

To Peter then, He speaks to us the 
same : 

'J'he word suits many different martyr- 
doms. 



And signifies • multiform of death. 
Although we scarcely die apostles, we. 
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and 
earth. 

For 'tis not in mere death that men die 

most ; 
And, after our first girding of the loins 
[n youth's fine linen and lair broiderv 
To run up hill and meet the 'ising sun. 
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool. 
While others gird us with the violent 

bands 
Of social figments, feints, and formal- 
isms. 
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up 
(Jur base needs, keeping down our lofty 

thoughts. 
Head downward on the cross-sticks of 

the world. 
Yet He can pluck us fioiii that shameful 

cross. 
God, set our feet low and our foreheac' 

high, 
And show us liow a man was made to 

walk ! 

Leave the lamp, Susan, and go to bed. 
The room does very well ; I have lo 

write 
Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get 

away ; 
Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room, 
Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters ! throw 

them down 
At once, as I must have them, to be 

sure. 
Whether I bid you never bring me such 
At such an hour, or bid you. No ex- 
cuse. 
\'ou choose to bring them, as I choose 

perhaps 
To throw them in the fire. Now get to 

bed. 
And dream, if possible, I am not cross. 

Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow, — 
A mer;, mere woman, — a mere flaccid 

nerve, 
A kerchief left out nil niglit in tlie rain. 
Turned soft so, — overtasked and over- 
strained 
And overlived in this close London lifel 
And yet 1 should be stronger. 

Never bum 



AURORA LEIGH. 



<5g 



Your li^tters, poor Aurora ! for they stare 

With red seals from the table, saying 
each, 

' Here's something that you know not.' 
Out alas, 

'Tis scarcely that the world's more good 
and wise 

Or even straigliter and more conse- 
quent 

Since yesterday at this time—yet, again, 

If but one angel spoke from Ararat, 

1 should be very sorry not to hear: 

So open all tlie letters! let me read. 

Blanche Ord, ;he writer in the ' Lady's 
Fan, 

Requests my judgment on . . that, after- 
wards. 

Kate Ward desires the model of my 
cloak. 

And signs, ' Elisha to you.' Pringle 
Sharpe 

Prese.ils his work on ' Social Conduct,' 
. craves 

A little money for his pressing debts . . 

From me, who scarce have money for my 
needs. 

Art's fiery chariot which we journey in 

Being apt to singe our singing-robes to 
holes. 

Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate 
Ward ! 

Here s Rudgely knows it,— editor and 
scribe — 

He's ' forced to marry where liis heart is 
not. 

Because the purse lacks where he lost 
his heart.' 

Ah, lost it because no one picked it 

up ! 

That's really loss ! (and passable impu- 
dence ) 

My critic Hammond flatters prettily. 

And wants another volume like the last. 

My critic Beltair wants another book, 

Entirely different, which will sell, (and 
live?) 

A striking book, yet not a startling book, 

The public blames originalities, 

(You must not pump spring-water una- 
wares 

Upon a gracious public, full of nerves — ) 

Good things, not subtle, new yet ortho- 
dox. 

As easy loading as the dog-eared page 

That's fingered by said public fifty years, 



Since first taught spelling by its grand- 
mother, 

And yet a revelation in some sort : 

That's hard, my critic Belfair ! So — 
what next ? 

My critic Stokes objects to abstract 
thoughts ; 

' Call a man, John, a woman, Joan,' says 
he, 

' And do not prate so of humanities :' 

Whereat I call my critic simply Siokes. 

My critic Jobson reconunends more 
mirth 

Because a cheerful genius suits the times, 

And all true poets laugh unquenchably 

Like Shakspeare and the gods. I'hat's 
very hard. 

The gods may laugh, and Shakspeare ; 
Dante smiled 

With such a needy heart on two pale 
lips. 

We cry, ' Weep rather, Dante.' Poems 
are 

Men, if true poems : and who dares ex- 
claim , 

At any man's door, ' Here, 'tis under- 
stood 

The thunder fell last week and killed a 
wife. 

And scared a sicklv husband— what of 
that? 

Get up, be merry, shout and clap your 
hands. 

Because a cheerful genius suits the 
times- ?' 

None says so to the man, — and why in- 
deed 

Should any to the poem? A ninth 
seal ; 

The apocalyse is drawing to a close. 

Ha, — this from Vincent Carrington, — 
' Dear friend, 

I want good counsel. Will you lend mc 
wings 

To raise me to the subject, in a sketch 

I'll bring to-morrow — may I? at eleven? 

A poet's only born to turn to use ; 

So save you ! for the world . . and Car- 
rington.' 

(Writ after.) ' Have you heard of Rom- 
ney Leigh 

Beyond what's said of him in newspa- 
pers. 

His phalansteries there, his speeches 
here, 



jho 



AURORA LEIGH. 



His p.implilets, pleas, and statements, 

everywhere 
He dropped fne, long ago ; but no one 

drops 
A golden apple — though indeed one day 
You hinted that, but jested. Well, at 

least 
You know Lord Howe who sees him . . 

whom he sees 
And yozi see, and I hate to see, — for 

Howe 
Stands high upon the brink of theories. 
Observes the swimmers and cries ' Very 

fine,' 
But keeps dry linen equally, — unlike 
That gallant breaster, Romney. Strange 

it is. 
Such sudden madness seizing a young 

man 
To make earth over again, — while I'm 

content 
To make the pictures. Let me bring 

tlie sketch. 
A tiptoe Danae, overbold and hot ; 
Both aru)s a flame to mqpt her wishing 

Jove 
Halfway, and burn him faster down ; the 

face 
And br=?asts upturned and straining, the 

loose locks 
All glowing with the anticipated gold. 
Or liere's another on the self-same iheme. 
Slie lies here - flat upon her prison-floor, 
The long hair swathed about her to the 

heel 
Like wet sea-weed. You dimly see her 

through 
The glittering haze of that prodigious 

rain. 
Half blotted out of nature by a love 
As heavy as fate. I'll bring you either 

sketch. 
I think, myself, the second indicates 
More passion.' 

Surely. Self is put away, 
And calm with abdication. She is Jove, 
And no more Danae -greater thus. Per- 
haps 
The painter symbolises unawares 
'I wo states (if the recipient artist-soul 
One. forward, personal, wanting rever- 
ence. 
Because aspiring only. VVe'll be calm, 
And kniiw that, when indeed our Joves 

come down 



We all turn stiller tb.in we have ever 
been. 

Kind Vincent Carrlngton. I'll let him 

come. 
He talks of Florence, — and lUhy say a 

word 
Of something as it chanced seven years 

ago, 
A hedgehog in the path, or a lame bird, 
In those green country walks, in that 

good time, 
When certainly I was so miserable . . 
I seem to have missed a blessing ever 

since. 

The music soars within the little lark. 

And the lark soars. It is not thus with 
men. 

We do not make our places with ouv 
strains, — 

Content, while they rise, to remain be- 
hind. 

Alone on earth instead of so in heaven. 

No matter — I bear on my broken tale. 

When Romney Leigh and I had parted 

thus, 
I took a chamber up three flights of 

stairs 
Not far from being as steep as some larks 

climb. 
And there in a certain liouse in Kensing- 
ton, 
Three years I lived and worked. Get 

leave to work 
In this world, — 'tis the best you get at 

all; 
For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts 
Than men in benediction. God says, 

' Sweat 
For foreheads ' men say " crowns ; ' and 

So we are crowned, — 
Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of 

steel 
Which snaps with a secret spring Get 

work ; get work : 
Be sure 'tis better than wliat you work 

to get. 

-Serene and unafraid of solitude 
1 worked the short days out, — and watch- 
ed the sun 
On liuid morns or monstrous afternoons 
Like some Druidic idol's fiery brass 



AURORA LEIGH. 



361 



Witli fixed uiiflickering outline of dead 

heat, 
From wliicli the blood of wretches pent 

inside 
Seems oozing forth to incarnadine the 

air, 
Push out through fog with his dilated 

disk, 
And startle the slant roofs and chimney- 
pots 
With splashes of fierce colour. Or I 

saw 
Fog only, the great tawny weltering fog. 
Involve the passive city, strangle it 
Alive, and draw it off into the void. 
Spires, bridges, streets, and squares, as 

if a sponge 
Had wiped out London, — or as noon and 

night 
Had clapped together and utterly struck 

out 
The intermediate time, undoing them- 
selves 
In the act. Your city poets see such 

things 
Not de.'ipicable. Mountains of the 

south, 
When, drunk and mad with elemental 

wines 
They rend the seamless mist and stand 

up bare. 
Make fewer singers, haply. No one 

sings, 
Descending Sinai ; on Parnassus-mount 
You take a mule to climb and not a muse. 
Except in fable and figuie: forests chant 
Their anthems to themselves, and leave 

you dumb. 
But sit in London at the day's decline. 
And view the city perish in the mist 
Like Pharaoh's armaments iu the deep 

Red Sea, 
The chariots, liorsemen, footmen, all the 

host. 
Sucked down and choked to silence — 

then, surprised 
By a sudden sense of vision and of tune. 
You feel as conquerors though you did 

not fight. 
And vou and Israel's other singing-girls. 
Ay, Miriam with them, sing the song you 
choose. 

I worked with patience which means al- 
most power. 



I did some excellent things ir.differently. 
Some bad things excellently. Both were 

praised, 
The latter loudest. And by such a time 
That I myself had set them down as sins 
Scarce worth the price of sackcloth, week 

by week 
Arrived some letter through the sedulous 

post. 
Like these I've read, and yet dissimiliar. 
With pretty maiden seals, — initials 

twined 
Of lilies, or a heart marked Emily, 
(Convicting Emily of being all heart ;) 
Or rarer tokens from young bachelors. 
Who wrote from college with the same 

goosequill. 
Suppose, they had just been plucked of, 

and a snalcli 
From Horace, ' Co'legisse juvat,' set 
Upon the first page. Many a letter 

signed 
Or unsigned, showing the writers at 

eighteen 
Had lived too long, although a muse 

should help 
Their dawn by holding candles,— com- 
pliments. 
To smile or sigh at. Such could pass 

with me 
No more than coins from Moscow cir- 
culate 
At Paris. Would ten roubles buy a tag 
Of ribbon on the boulevard, wonh a 

sou ? 
I smiled that all this youth should love 

me, — sighed 
That such a love could scarcely raise them 

up 
To love what was more worthy than niv- 

self: 
Then sighed again, again, less gener- 
ously. 
To think the very love tliey lavished so. 
Proved me inferior. The strong loved 

me not. 
And he . . my cousin Romney . . did 

not write. 
I felt the silent finger of his scorn 
Prick evei V bubble of my frivolous fame 
As my breaih blew it, and resolve it back 
To the air it came from. Oh, I jnsiified 
The measure he had taken of my height : 
The thing was plain— he was not wrong 
a line ; 



36= 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I played at art, made thrusts with a toy- 
sword, 
Amused the lads and maidens. 

Came a sigh 
Deep, hoarse with resolution, — I would 

vviiik 
To belter ends, or play in earnest. 

' Heavens, 
I think I sliocld be almost popular 
If this went on ! ' — 1 ripped niv verses 

up, 
And tound no blood upon the rapier's 

jjoiiit ; 
The heart in them was just an embryo's 

heart 
Which never yet had beat, that it should 

die ; 
Just gasps of make-believe galvanic life ; 
Mere tones, inorganised to any tune. 

And yet I felt it in me wliere it burnt. 
Like those hot fire-seeds of creation held 
In Jove"s clerclied palm before the 

worlds were sown, — ' 
But 1 -1 was not Juno even ! my hand 
Was shut in weak convulsion, woman's 

ill, 
And when I yearned to lose a finger — lo. 
The nerve revolted, 'lis the same even 

now : 
Tliis hand may never, haply, open large. 
Before the spark is quenched, or tlie 

palm charred. 
To prove the power not else than by the 

pain. 

It burns, it burnt — my whole life burnt 

with it, 
And light, not sunlight and not torch- 

liglit, flashed 
My steps out through the slow and diffi- 
cult road. 
I had grown distrustful of too forward 

Springs, 
The season's books in drear significance 
Of morals, dropping round me. Lively 

books? 
The ash has livelier verdure than the 

yew ; 
And yet the yew's green longer, and 

alone 
Found worthy of the holy Christmas 

time. 
We'll plant more yews if possible, albeit 
We plant the graveyards with them. 



Day and night 
I worked my rhythmic thought, and )ur- 

rowed up 
Both watch and slumber with long lines 

of life 
Which did not suit thr.-- ">ason. '1 he 

rose fell 
From either cheek, my eyes globed lumi- 
nous 
Through orbits of blue shadow, and my 

pulse 
Would shudder along the purple-veined 

wrist 
Like a shot bird. Youth's stern, set face 

to face 
With youth's ideal : and when jieople 

came 
And said, ' Vou work too much, you are 

lookuig iil,' 
I smiled tor pity of tliem who pitied me, 
Ai;d thought 1 should be better soon 

perhaps 
For those ill looks. Observe--' I,' 

means in youth 
Just / . . the conscious and eternal soul 
With all its ends, — and not the outside 

life. 
The parcel-man, the doublet of the flesh, 
I'he so much liver, lung, integument. 
Which make the sum of ' I ' hereafter 

when 
World-talkers talk of doing veil or ill. 
/ prosper, if I gain a step, altliough 
A nail then pierced my foot : although 

niy brain 
Embracing any truth froze paralysed, 
/ piosper. 1 but change my iustiument ; 
I break the spade off, digging aeep for 

gold. 
And catch the mattock up. 

I worked on, on. 

Through all the bristling fence of nights 
and days 

Which hedges time in from the eterni- 
ties, 

I struggled, . . never stopped to note 
the stakes 

Which hurt me in iny course. 'J'he mid- 
night oil 

Would stink sometimes there came 
some vulgar needs : 

I had to live that therefore I miglit work, 

And, being but poor, I was constrained, 
for life, 



AUKOKA LEIGH. 



3^3 



To worlt with one hand for the book- 
sellers 
Wliile working witli tlie otlier for my- 
self 
And art. You swim with feet as well ns 

har.ds, 
Or make small way. I apprehended 

this,— 
In Kngland, no one lives by verse that 

lives ; 
And, apprehending, I resolved by prose 
To make a space to spiiere iny living 

verse. 
1 wrote for cyclopadias, magazines, 
And weekly papers, lidding up my name 
To keep it from the mud I learnt the 

use 
Of the editorial ' we ' in a review. 
As courtly ladies the fine trick of trains, 
And swept it grandly through the open 

doors 
As if one could not pass through doors 

at all 
Save so encumbered. I wrote tales be- 
side. 
Carved many an article en cherry-stones 
To suit light readers, — something in the 

lines 
Revealing, it was said, the mallet-hand, 
But that, 111 never vouch for. What 

you do 
For bread, will taste of common grain, 

not grapes. 
Although you have a vineyard in Cham- 

Ijagne — 
Much less in Nephelococcygia, 
As mine was, peradventure. 

Having bread 
For just so many days, just breathing 

room 
For body and verse, I stood up straight 

and worked 
Mv veritable work. And as the soul 
Which grows within a child makes the 

child grow, — 
Or as the fiery sap, the touch from 

God, 
Careering through a tree, dilates the 

bark 
And roughs with scale and knob, before 

it strikes 
The summer foliage out in a green 

flame — 
So life, in deepening with me, deepened 

all 



The course I took, the work I did. In- 
deed 
The academic law convinced of sin ; 
The critics cried out on the falling off, 
Regretting the first manner. But I felt 
My he.irt's life throbbing in my verse to 

show 
It lived, it also — certes incomplete. 
Disordered witli all Adam in the blood. 
But even its very tumors, warts, and 

wens. 
Still organised by and implying life. 

A lady called upon me on such a day. 
She had tlie low voice of your English 

dames. 
Unused, it seems, to need rise lialf a 

note 
To catch attention, — and their quiet 

mood, 
As if they lived too high above the earth 
For that to put them out in anything : 
So gentle, because verily so proud ; 
So wary and afraid of hurting you. 
By no means that you are not really vile. 
But that they would not touch you with 

their foot 
To push you to your place ; so self-oos- 

sessed 
Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes 
An effort in their presence to speak 

truth : 
You know the sort of woman, — brilliant 

stuflT. 
And out of natme. ' Lady Waldemar.* 
She said her name quite simply, as if it 

meant 
Not nuicli indeed, but something,— took 

my hands. 
And smiled as if her smile could liel)) 

my case, 
And dropped her eyes on me and let 

them melt. 
' Is this,' she said, 'the Muse? ' 

' No sybil even.' 
I answered, ' since she fails to guess the 

cause 
Which taxed you with this visit, madam.' 
■ Good,' 
.She said, ' I value what's sincere at 

once : 
Perhaps if I had found a literal Muse, 
The visit might have taxed me. As it is, 
You wear vour blue so chiefly in your 

eyes. 



3^4 



J17ROR.I LEIGH. 



My fair Aurora, in a frank good way, 
It comforts me entirely for your fame, 
As well as for the trouble of ascent 
To this Olympus.' 

There, a silver laugli 
Ran rippling tltrougli her qiiickened little 

breaths 
The steep stair somewhat justified. 

' But still 
Your ladvship has left me curious why 
You dared the risk of finding the said 

Muse?' 

'Ali,^<eep me, notwithstanding to the 

point, 
Like any pedant. Is the blue in eyes 
As awful as in stockings after all, 
1 wonder, lliat you d have my business 

out 
Before I breathe — exact tlie epic plunge 
In spite of gasps? Well, naturally you 

tliink 
I've come here as the lion-hunters go 
'I'o deserts, to secure you with a trap, 
Kor exhibition in my drawing-rooms 
On zoologic soirees"? Not in the least. 
Roar softly at me ; I am frivolous, 
I dare say ; I have played at wild-beasts 

shows. 
Like o.her women of my class, — but 

now 
I meet my lion siinply as Anclrocles 
Met his . . when at his mercy.' 

So, she bent 
Her head, as queens may mock, then 

lifting up 
Her evelids %\ith real grave queenly look, 
Whicli rii ed and would not spare, not 

even herse'.f, — 
' I think vou liave a cousin ; — Romney 

Leigh.' 

' You bring a word from him V — my eyes 

leapt up 
'I'o the verv height of hers, — 'a word 

froiu ItiiH ? ' 

' I bring a word about him, aclually. 
But tirst,'— she pressed lue with her ur- 
gent eves - 
' You do not love him, — you ? ' 

' You're frank at least 
In puttipg cu^stibns, m.idani ' 1 replied. 
' I love my cousin cousinly — no more.' 



' I guessed as much. I'm ready to be 

fratik 
In answering also, if you'll question me. 
Or even with something less. Vou stand 

outside. 
You artist women, of the common sex : 
You share not with us, and exceed us so 
Perhaps by what you're mulcted in, your 

hearts 
Being starved to make your heads : so 

run the old 
Traditions of you. I can therefoie 

speak. 
Without the natural shame which crea- 
tures feel 
When speaking on their level, to their 

like. 
There's many a papist she, would rather 

die 
Than own to her maid she put a ribbon 

on 
To catch the indifferent eye of such a 

man, — 
Who yet would count adulteiies on her 

beads 
At holy Mary's shrine and never blush; 
Because the saints are so far off. we lose 
All modesty before them. Thus, today. 
'Tis /, love Romney Leigh.' 

■ Forbear,' I cried. 
' If here's no Muse, still less is any saint; 
Nor even a Irieud, that Lady Waidemar 
Should make confessions ' . . 

'That's unkindly said. 
If no friend, what forbids to make a 

friend 
To join to our confession ere we Iiave 

done? 
I love your cousin. If it seems unwise 
To sav .so, it's still foolisher (we're 

frank) 
To feel so. My first husband le,''t me 

young. 
And pretty enough, so please you. and 

rich cTHiugh. 
To keep my booth in May-fair with the 

rest 
'' o hap)iy issues. There are marquises 
WouM serve .seven vears to call me wite, 

I know; 
.And. after seven, I might consider it, 
I'or theie's some comfort in a marqni- 

sate 
When all's said, — yes, but alter the seven 

vears ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



/i*^? 



I, now, love Romney. You put up your 

lip, 
So like a Leigh ! so like liiin ! — Pardon 

me, 
I am well aware I do not derogate 
1 loving Romney Leigh. The name is 

good. 
The iueaiis are excellent ; but the man ; 

the man — 
Heaven help us both, — I am near as mad 

as he, 
In loving such an one.' 

She slowly wrung 
Her heavy ringlets till they touched her 

smile. 
As reasonably sorry for herself; 
And thus continued, — 

' Of a truth. Miss Leigh, 
I have not, without struggle come to 

this. 
I look a master in the German tongue, 
I gamed a little, went to Paris twice ; 
But. after all, this love ! . . . you eat of 

love. 
And do as vile a thins; as if you ate 
Of garlic -which, whatever else yon eat, 
Tastes uniformly acrid, till yoin- peach 
Reininds von of your onion ! Am I 

coarse ? 
Well, leva's coarse, nature's coarse- ah, 

there's the rnb ! 
We fair fnie ladies, uho parlt out our 

lives 
From common sheep-paths, cannot help 

the crovvs 
From flying ovet, — wfi're as natnral still 
As B owsaiiiida. Drape us jierfectly 
In Lyons' velvet, — we are not, for that, 
Lay-fimirei, like you : we h.ive hearts 

within, 
Warm, live, improvident, indecent 

liearts. 
As ready for outrageous ends and acts 
As any distressed seaii'Stress of tliem nil 
That koniney groa.i'i ajid toils for. We 

citch love 
And oth;r fevers, in the vulgar wav. 
]-ove will ncit bi-' ontuitted by our wit, 
Nor outrun bv our equipages: — mine 
Persisted, spite of efforts. Ail my cards 
Turned up but Romney Leigh ; my Ger- 
man stopped 
At germane Wertheiism ; my Paris 

rounds 



Returned me from the Champs Elysees 

just 
A ghost, and sighing like Dido's. I 

cam. home 
Uncnred,— convicted rather to myself 
Of beitig in love . . in love ! That's 

coarse you'll say. 
I'm talking garlic' 

Coldly I replied. 
' Apologise for atheism, not love ! 
For me, I do believe in love, and God. 
I know my cousin: Lady Waldeniar 
I know not : yet I say as much as this — ■ 
Wlioever loves him, let her i ot excu.se 
But cleanse herself, that, loving such a 

man. 
She mav not do it with such unworthy 

love 
He cannot stoop and take it.' 

' That is said 
Austerely, like a youtht'ul prophetess. 
Who knits lier brows acioss her pretty 

eyes 
To keep them back from following the 

grey flight 
Of doves between the terap'e-columns. 

Dear, 
Be kinder with me. Let us two be 

friends. 
I'n-i a mere woman, — the more weak 

perhaps 
Through being so proud ; j-ou"re better ; 

as for him. 
He's best. Indeed he buildi his good- 
ness up 
So liigh, it topples down to llie other 

side. 
And makes a sort of badness ; there's 

llie worst 
I have to say against your cousin's best 1 
And so be mild, Auroia. with my uoist, 
For his sake, if not mine.' 

' I own myseif, 
Incredulous of confidence like tins 
Avaiiing him or you.' 

'And l.inself, 
Of being worthy of him with any love : 
In your sense 1 am not so — let it pass. 
Let that pass too.' 

' Pass, pass ! we play po'.ice 
Upon my cousin's lite, to indicate 
What may or may not pass. ' I cried. 

' He knows 
What's worthy of him ; the choice re- 
mains with kim i 



366 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And what he chooses, act or wife, I 
think 

I shall not call unworthy, I, for one.' 

' Tis somewhat rashly said,' she answer- 
ed slow. 

' Now let's talk reason, though we talk 
of love. 

Your cousin Romney Leigh's a monster : 
there. 

The word's out fairly ; let me prove the 
fact. 

We'll take, say, that most perfect of an- 
tiques 

They call tlie Genius of the Vatican, 

Which seems too beauteous to endure it- 
self 

In this mixed world, and fasten it for 
once 

Upon the torso of the Dancing Fawn, 

(Who might limp surely, if he did not 
dnuce.) 

Instead of Buonarroti's mask: what 
then? 

We show the sort of monster Romney is, 

Willi god like virtue and heroic aims 

Subjoined to limping possibilities 

Of mismade human nature. Grant the 
man 

Twice godlike, twice heroic, — still he 
limps. 

And here's the point we come to.' 

' Pardon me, 

Dut, Lady Waldemar, the point's the 
tlnng 

We never come to.' 

' Caustic, in.solent 

At need I I like you ' — (there, she took 
my liands) 

' And now my lioness, help Androcles, 

l''or all your roaring. Help me ! for my- 
self 

I would not say so— but for him. He 
limps 

So ceitainly, he'll fall into the pit 

A week hence, — so I lose him — so he is 
lost 1 

For when he's fairly married, he a Leigh, 

To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful 
birth, 

Starved out in London till her coarse- 
grained hands 

Are whiter than her morals, — even you 

May call his choice unworthy.' 

' Married I lost ! 

He, . . . Romney I ' 



' Ah, you're moved at last,' she said. 
' These monsters, set out in the open 

sun, 
Of com se throw monstrous shadows i 

those who think 
Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who 

but he? 
And who but you can wonder? He has 

been mad. 
The whole world knows, since first, a 

nominal man, 
He soured the proctors, tried the gowns- 
men's wits. 
With equal scorn of triangles and wine, 
And took no honours, yet was honour- 
able. 
They'll tell you he lost count of Homer's 

ships 
In Melbourne's poor-bills, Ashley's fac- 
tory bills — 
Ignored the Aspasia we all dare to praise. 
For other women, dear, we could not 

name 
Because we're decent. Well, he had 

some right 
On his side probably ; men always have. 
Who go absurdly wrong. The living 

boor 
Who brews your ale, exceeds in vital 

worth 
Dead Cassar who ' stops bungholes ' in 

the cask : 
And also, to do good is excellent, 
For persons of his income, even to 

boors : 
I sympathise with all such things. But 

he 
Went mad upon them . . madder and 

more mad, 
From college times to these, — as, going 

down hill. 
The faster still, the farther I you nuist 

know 
Your Leigh by heart ; he has sowi\ his 

black young curls 
With bleaching cares of half a milIio;i 

men 
Already. If you do not starve, or sin. 
You're nothing to him. Pay the incon.e- 

tax. 
And break your heart upon't . . he'il 

scarce be tonched ; 
But come upon the parish, qualified 
For the parish stocks, and Romney wi;l 

be ihero 



/ 



AURORA LEIGH. 



^^7 



To call you brother, sis'er, or perlnps 
A leuderer name still. Had I any chance 
With Mister Leigh, who am Lady Wal- 

domar, 
And never committed felony?' 

' Vou speak 
Too bitterly,' I said, 'for the literal 

truth.' 

' The truth is bitter. Here's a man who 
looks 

For ever on the ground ! you must be 
low : 

Or else a pictured ceiling overhead, 

Good painting thrown away. For me, 
I've done 

What women may, we're somewhat lim- 
ited. 

We modest women, but I've done ray 
best. 

— How men are perjured when they 
swear our eyes 

Have meaning in them ! they're just 
blue or brown. 

They just can drop their lids a little. 
And yet 

Mine did more, for I read half Fourier 
through, 

Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis 
Blanc, 

With various other of his socialists ; 

And it" [ had been a fathom less in love, 

Had cured myself with gaping. As it 
was, 

I quoted from them prettily enough 

Perhaps, to make tltem sound iialf ra- 
tional 

To a sap.er man than he whene'er we 
talked, 

(For which I dodged occasion) — learnt 
by heart 

His speeches in the Commons and else- 
where 

Upon the social question ; heaped re- 
ports 

Of wicked women and penitentiaries, 

O.i all my. tables, with a place fur Sue ; 

And gave my name to swell subscription- 
lists 

Toward keeping up the sun at night in 
heavea, 

And other possible ends. All things I 
did. 

Except the impossible . . such as wear- 
ing gowns 



Provided by the Ten Hours' movement : 

there, 
I stopped — we must stop somewhere. 

He, meanwhile, 
Unmoved as the Indian tortoise 'uenth 

the world. 
Let all that noise go on upon his back : 
He would not disconcert or throw me 

out ; 
'Twas well to see a woman of my class 
With such a dawn of conscience. For 

the heart, 
Made firewood for his sake, and flaming 

t;p 

To his face, — he merely warmed his feet 

at it; 
But deigned to let my carriage stop him 

short 
In park or street, — he leaning on the door 
With news of the committee which sate 

last 
On pickpockets at suck.' 

' Vou jest — you jest.' 

' As martyrs jest, dear, (if you read their 

lives) 
Upon the axe which kills them. When 

all's done 
By me. . . for him — you'll ask liim pres- 
ently 
The colour of my hair — he cannot tell. 
Or answers ' dark ' at random, — while, 

be sure, 
He's absolute on the figure, five or ten. 
Of my last subscription. Is it bearable. 
And I a woman ? ' 

' Is it reparable, 
I'hough / were a man ? ' 

' I know not. That's to prove. 
But first, this shameful marriage.' 

' Ay ? ' I cried, 
' Then really there's a inarriage ? ' 

' Yesterday 
I held him fast upon it. ' Mister Leigh,' 
Said I, ' shut up a thing, it makes more 

i\oise. 
' Tlie boiling town keeps secrets ill ; I've 

known 
' Yours since last week. Forgive mv 

knowledge so 
' You feel I'm not the woman of the 

world 
' The world thinks ; you have borne with 

me before 



368 



AUROIiA LEIGH. 



' And used me in your noble work, our 

woi k, 
' And now you shall not cast me off 

because 
' You're at llie difficult point, Ibe join. 

'Tis true 
' Even 1 can scarce admit the cogency 
' l.)f such a marriage . . where you do 

not love, 
'(Except the class) yet marry and throw 

your'name 
' Down to the ?:utter. for a fire-escape 
' 'J'o future generations ! 't is sublime, 
' A great example, — a true Genesis 
' Of the opening social era. But take 

heed ; 
' This virtuous act must have a patent 

weight, 
' Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell, 
' Interpret it, and set in the light, 
' And do not muffle it in a winter cloak 
' As a vulgar bit of shame, — as if. at best, 
'A Eeigh had made a misalliance and 

blushed 
'A Howard should know it.' Then, I 

pressed him more— 
' He would not choose,' I said, ' that 

even his kin . . 
' Aurora Leigh, even . . should conceive 

Ins a'^t 
' Less sacrifice, more fantasy.' At 

which 
He grew so pale, dear, . . to the lips I 

knew, 
I had touched him. ' Do you know her,' 

he inqiined, 
'My cousin Aurora?' 'Yes,' I said, 

and lied, 
(But truly we all know you by your 

books) 
And so I offered to come straight to 

you. 
Explain the subject, justify tlie cause. 
And take you with me to St. Margaret's 

Court 
To see this miracle, this Marian Erie, 
'I'his drover's d.iughter (she's not pretty, 

he swears) 
Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked 
15y a hundred needles, we're to hang the 

lie, 
'Twixt class and class in England, — thus 

indeed 
By such a presence, yours and mine, to 
lift 



The match up froin the doubtful place. 

At once 
He thanked me sighiiig . . murmured 

to himself 
' She'll do it perhaps ; she's noble,' — 

thanked me, twice. 
And promised, as my guerdon, to put off 
His marriage for a month.' 

I answered then. 

' I understand your drift imperfectly. 

You wish to lead me to my cousin's be- 
trothed. 

To touch her hand if worthy, and hold 
her hand 

If feeble, thus to justify his match. 

So be it then. But how this serves your 
ends, 

And how th.: strange confession of your 
love 

Serves this, I have to learn^ — I cannot 
see.' 

She knit her restless forehead. ' Then, 

despite, 
Aurora, that most radiant morning 

name. 
You're dull as any London afternoon. 
I wanted lime,— and gained it. — wanted 

you. 
And gain you ! You will come and see 

the girl 
In whose most prodigal eyes the lineal 

pearl 
And pride of all yonr lofty race of Leighs 
Is destined to solution. Authorised 
By sight mid knowledge, then, you'll 

speak your mind. 
And prove to Roinney, in your brilliant 

way. 
He'll wrong the people and posterity 
(Sav such a thing is bad for me and you, 
And you fail utterly.) by concluding thus 
An execrable marriape. Break it up. 
Disroot it — )ieraHventuie presently. 
We'll plant a better fortune in its place. 
Be good to me, Aurora, scorn me less 
For saving the thing I should not. Well 

I know 
I should not. I liave kept, as others 

have, 
The iron rule of womanly reserve 
Tn lip and life, till now: I wept a week 
Before I canie here.' — Ending, she wa» 

pale ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



369 



The last words, Iiaughtily said, were 

tremulous. 
This palfrey pranced in harness, arched 

her neck, 
And, only by the foam upon the bit. 
You saw she champed against it. 

Then I rose. 
'I love love; truth's no cleaner thing 

than love. 
I comprehend a love so fiery hot 
It burns its natural veil of august shame. 
And stands sublimely in the nude, as 

chaste 
As Medicean Venus. But I know, 
A love tliat burns through veils will burn 

tlnough masks 
And shrivel up treachery. What, love 

and lie I 
Nay — go to the opera I your love's cura- 
ble.' 

' I love and lie ?* she said — ' I lie, for- 
sooth ? ' 

And beat her taper foot upon the floor, 

And smiled against the shoe, — ' You're 
hard, Miss Leigh, 

Unversed in current phrases, — Bowling- 
greens 

Of poets are fresher than the world's 
highways ; 

Forgive me that I rashly blew tlie dust 

Which dims our hedges even, in your 
eyes, 

And vexed you so much. You find, pro- 
bably. 

No evil in this marriage, — rather good 

Of innocence, to pastoralise in song : 

You'll give the bond your signature, per- 
haps. 

Beneath the lady's mark, — indifferent 

That Romney chose a wife, could write 
her name. 

In witnessing he loved her.' 

' Loved ! ' I cried : 

' Who tells you that he wants a wife to 
love ' 

He gets a horse to use, not love, I think : 

There's work for wives as well, — and af- 
ter, straw. 

When men are liberal. For myself, you 
err 

Supposing power ni me to break this 
match. 

I could not do it to save Romney's life ; 

And would not, to save mine.' 



' You take so it.' 
She said ; ' farewell then. Write your 

books in peace, 
As far as may be for some secret stir 
Now obvious to me, — for, most obvious- 

'y. . . 

In coming hither I mistook the way.' 
Whereat she touched my hand, and bent 

her he.id. 
And floated from me like a silent cloud 
'I'hat leaves the sense of thunder. 

I drew breath 
Oppressed in my deliverance. After all 
This woman breaks lier social system up 
For love, so counted — the love possible 
To such, — and lilies are still lilies, pulled 
By smutty hands, though spotted from 

their white ; 
And thus she is better haply of Iier kind, 
Than Romney Leig'h, who lives by dia- 
grams. 
And crosses out the spontaneities 
Of all Ills individual, personal life, 
With formal universals. As if man 
Were set upon a high stool at a desk 
To keep God's books for Him in red and 

black, 
And feel by millions ! What, if even 

God 
Were chiefly God by living out Himself 
I'o an individualism of the Infinite, 
Eterne, intense, profuse, — still throwing 

, up , . . 

The golden spray of multitudinous 

worlds 
In measure to the proclive weight and 

rush 
Of His inner nature, — the spontaneous 

love 
Still proof and outflow of spontaneous 

life? 
Then live, Aurora. 

Two hours afterward. 
Within St. Margaret's Court I stood 

alone. 
Close-veiled. A sick child, from an ague- 
tit. 
Whose wasted right hand gamboled 

'gamst his left 
With an old brass button in a blot of 

sun, 
Jeered weakly at me as I passed across 
I'he uneveji pavement ; while a woman, 
rouged 



37° 



A UKORA LEIGH. 



Upon the angular cheek-bones, kerchief 

lorn, 
Thin dangling locks, and flat lascivious 

inoiilh, 
Cursed at a window both ways, in and 

out. 
By turns some bed-rid creature and my- 
self,— 
' Lie still there, mother ! liker the dead 

dog 
You'll be to-morrow. What, we pick 

our way, 
Fine madam, with those damnable small 

feet ! 
We cover up our face from doing good. 
As if it were our purse ! What brings 

you here. 
My lady? is't to find my gentleman 
Who visits his tame pigeon in the 

eaves? 
Our cholera catch you with its cramps 

and spams. 
And tumble up your good clothes, veil 

and all. 
And tuin your whiteness dead-blue.' I 

looked up ; 
I think I could have walked through 

hell that day. 
And never flinched. ' The dear Christ 

comfort you,' 
I saic'i, ' you must have been most miser- 
able 
To be so cruel.' — and I emptied out 
My purse upon the stones : when, as I 

had cast 
The last charm in the cauldron, the whole 

court 
Went boiling, bubbling up, from all its 

doors 
And windows, with a hideous wail of 

laughs 
And roitr of oaths, and blows perhaps . . 

I passed 
Too quickly for distinguishing . . and 

pushed 
A little side-door hanging on a hinge. 
And plunged into the dark, and groped 

and climbed 
The long, steep, narrow stair 'twixt brok- 
en rail 
And mildewed wall that let the plaster 

drop 
To startle me in the blackness. Still, 

up, up ! 



So high lived Romney's bride. I paused 

at last 
Before a low door in the root', and 

knocked ; 
There came an answer like a hurried 

dove, 
' So soon ? can that be Mister Leigh ? so 

soon ? ' 
And as I entered, an ineffable face 
Met mine upon the threshold. ' Oh, not 

you. 
Not you ! ' ... the dropping of the 

voice implied, 
' Then, if not you, for me not any one.' 
I looked her in the eyes, and held her 

hands. 
And said, ' I am his cousin^ — Romney 

Leigh's; 
And here I'm come to see my cousin 

too.' 
She touched me with her face and with 

her voice. 
This daughter of the people. Such soft 

flowers. 
From such rough roots? the people, un- 
der there. 
Can sin so, curse so, look so, smell so . . . 

faugh ! 
Yet have such daughters ? 

No wise beautiful 
Was Marian Erie. She was not white 

nor brown, 
But could look either, like a mist that 

changed 
According to being shone on more or 

less. 
The liair, too, ran its opulence of curls 
In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor left 

you clear 
To name the colour. Too much hair 

perhaps 
(Ml name a fault here) for so small a 

head. 
Which seemed to droop on that side and 

on this. 
As a full blown rose uneasy with its 

weight 
Though not a wind should trouble it. 

Again, 
The dimple in the clieek had better 

gone 
With redder, fuller rounds : and some- 
what large 
The mouth was, though the milky little 
teeth 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Dissolved it to so infantine a smile. 
Fir soon it smiled at me ; the eyes 

smilea too, 
But 'twas as if remembering they had 

wept, 
And knowing tliey should, some day, 

weep again. 

We talked. She old me all her story out. 
Which I'll .e-teli with fuller utterance, 
As coloured and confirmed in aflertimes 
By others and herself too. Marian 

Erie 
Was born upon the ledge ot Malvern 

Hill 
To eastward, in a hut built up at night 
To evade the landlord's eye, of mud and 

turf. 
Still liable, if once he looked that way. 
To being straight levelled, scattered by 

his toot. 
Like any other anthill. Born, I say ; 
God sent her to His world, commissioned 

right. 
Her human testimonials fully signed. 
Not scant in soul — complete in linea- 
ments : 
But others had to swindle her a place 
To wail in when she had come. No 

place for her. 
By man's law i born an outlaw, was this 

ba'De. 
Her tirst cry in our strange and strang- 
ling air, 
IVhen cast in spasms out by the shudder- 
ing womb, 
Was wrong against the social code, — 

forced wrong. 
What business had the baby to cry 
there ? 

I tell her story and grow passionate. 
She, Marian, did not tell it so, but used 
Meek words that made no wonder of 

herself 
For being so sad a creature. ' Mister 

Leigh 
Considered truly that such things should 

cha ige. 
They 7oill, in heaven— but meantime, on 

the earth. 
There's none can like a nettle as a pink, 
.Except himself. We're nettles, some 

of us, 



And give offence by the act of springing 

lip; 
And, if we leave the damp side of the 

wall. 
The hoe>, of course, are on us.' So she 

said. 
Her father earned his life by random 

jobs 
Despised by steadier workmen — keeping 

swine 
On commons, picking hops, or hurrying 

on 
The harvest at wet seasons, — or, at need, 
Assisting the Welsh drovers, when a 

drove 
Of startled horses plunged into the mist 
Below the mountain-road, and sowed the 

wind 
With wandering n'eighings. In between 

the gaps 
Of such irregular work, he drank and 

slept. 
And cursed his wife because, the pence 

being out. 
She could not buy more drink. At 

which she turned 
(The worm) and beat her baby in re- 
venge 
For her own broken heart. There's not 

a crime 
But takes it's proper change out stiil in 

crime, 
If once rung on the counter of this 

world ; 
Let sinners look to it. 

Yet the outcast child, 
For whom the very mother's face lore- 
went 
The mother's special patience, lived and 

grew ; 
Learnt early to cry low, and walk alone, 
With th3t pathetic vacillating roll 
Of the infant body on the uncertain feet, 
(The earth being felt unstable ground so 

soon) 
At which most women's arms unclose at 

once 
With irrepressive instinct. Thus, at 

three. 
This poor weaned kid would run off from 

the fold. 
This babe would steal off from the moth- 
er's chair, 
And, creeping through the golden walls 

of gorse, 



572 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Would find some keyhole toward the se- 
crecy 
Of Heaven's high blue, and, nestling 

down, peer out — 
Oh, not to catch the angels at their 

games. 
She had never heard of angels, — but to 

gaze 
She Unew not why, to see she knew not 

what, 
A-hniigering outward from the barren 

earth 
For something like a joy. She liked, she 

said, 
To dazzle black lier sight against the 

sky, 
For then, it seemed, some grand blind 

Love came down. 
And groped her out, and clasped her 

with a kiss ; 
She learnt God that way, and was beat 

for it 
Whenever she went home, — yet came 

again, 
As surely as the trapped hare, getting 

free, 
Returns to his form. This grand blind 

Love, she said, 
This skyey father and mother both in 

one. 
Instructed her and civilised lier more 
Than even Sunday-school did afterward. 
To which a lady sent her to learn books. 
And sit upon a long bench in a row 
With otlier children. Well, she laughed 

sometimes 
To see them laugh and laugh and maul 

their texts ; 
But ofter she was sorrowful with noise, 
And wondered if their mothers beat them 

hard 
That ever they should laugh so. There 

was one 
She loved indeed,— Rose Bell, a seven 

years' child. 
So pretty and clever, who read syllables 
When Marian was at letters ; she would 

laugh 
At nothing— hold your finger up, she 

laughed. 
Then shook her curls down over eyes 

and mouth 
To hide her make-mirth from the school- 
master. 
And Rose's pelting glee, as frank as rain 



On cherry-blossoms, brightened Marian 

too, 
To see another merry whom slie loved. 
She whispered once(tlie children side by 

side. 
With mutual arms entwined about their 

necks) 
' Your mother lets you laugh so?' ' Ay,' 

said Rose, 
' She lets me. She was dug into the 

ground 
Six years since, I being but a yearling 

wean. 
Such mothers let us play and lose our 

time. 
And never scold nor beat us ! don't you 

wish 
You had one like that? ' There, Marian 

breaking off 
Looked suddenly in my face. ' Poor 

Rose,' said" she, 
' I heard her laugh last night in Oxford 

Street. 
I'd pour out half my blood to stop that 

laugh. 
Poor Rose, poor Rose 1 'said Marian. 

She resumed. 
It tried her, when slie had learnt at 

Sunday-school 
What God was, what he wanted from us 

all, 
And how in choosing sin we vexed the 

Christ, 
To go straight home and hear her father 

pull 
The name down on us from the thunder 

shelf. 
Then drink away his soul into tlie dark 
From seeing judgment. Father, mother, 

home. 
Were God and heaven reversed to her; 

the more 
She knew of Right, the more she guessed 

their wrong. 
Her price paid down for knowlegde, was 

to know 
The vileness of her kindred : through 

her heart, 
Her filial and tormented heart, hence- 

forUi, 
They siruck their blows at virtue. Oh, 

'tis hard 
To learn you liave a father up in heaven 
By a galliering certain sense of being, 
on earth, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Still worse than orphaned: 'tis too Iieavy 

a grief. 
The having to thank God for such a joy ! 

And so passed Marian's life from year to 

year. 
Her parents totik her with them when 

they tramped. 
Dodged 'lanes and heaths, frequented 

towns and fairs, 
And once went farther and saw Man- 
chester, 
And once the sea, that blue end of the 

world, 
That fair scroll-finis of a wicked book, — 
And twice a prison, back at intervals. 
Returning to the hills. Hills draw like 

heaven. 
And stronger sometimes, holding out 

their hands 
To pull you from the vile flats up to 

them ; 
And though perhaps these strollers still 

strolled back. 
As sheep do, simply tliat they knew the 

way, 
They certainly felt bettered unaware 
Emerging from the social smut of towns 
To wipe their feet clean on the mountain- 
turf 
In which long wanderings, Marian lived 

ai\d learned. 
Endured .Tnd learned. The people on 

the roads 
Would slop and ask her how her eyes 

outgrew 
Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge 

the birds 
In all tliat hair: and then they lifted her, 
Tile miller in his cart, a mile or twain, 
The butcher's boy on liorseback. Often 

too 
The pedlar stopped, and tapped her on 

the head 
With absolute forefinger, brown and 

ringed. 
And asked if peradventure she could 

read : 
And when she answered ' ay,' would toss 

her down 
Some stray odd volume fiom his heavy 

pack, 
A Thimison's Seasons, mulcted of the 

Sprhig, 



Or lualf a play of Shakspeare's, torn 

across : 
(She had to guess the bottom of a page 
By just tile top sonietinies, — as difScull, 
As, silting on tlie moon, to guess ilie 

earth !) 
Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that small 

Ruth's 
Small gleanings) torn out from the heart 

of books. 
Froin Churchyard Elegies and Edens 

Lost, 
From Burns, and Bunyan, Selkirk, and 

Tom Jones. 
'Twas somewhat hard to keep the things 

distinct, 
And oft the jangling influence jarred the 

cliild 
Like looking at a sunset full of grace 
Through a pothouse window wiiile the 

drunken oaths 
Went on behind her; but she weeded 

o;it 
Her book-leaves, threw away the leaves 

that hurt, 
(First tore them small, that none should 

find a word) 
And made a nosegay of the sweet and 

good 
To fold within her breast, and pore upon 
At broken moments of the noontide 

glare. 
When leave was given her to untie her 

cloak 
And rest upon the dusty highway's bank 
From the road's dust. Or oft, the jour- 
ney done. 
Some city friend would lead her by t)ie 

hand 
To hear a lecture at an institute : 
And thus she had grown, this Marian 

Erie of ours, 
To no book-learning, — she was ignorant 
Of authors, — not in earshot of the things 
Out-spoken o'er the heads of cuiiinion 

men 
By men who a*e uncommon. — but wiili- 

in 
The cadenced hum of such, and capab'e 
Of catching from the fringes of the wind 
Some fragmentary phrases, here and 

there. 
Of that fine music, — which, being carried 

in 
To her soul, had reproduced itself afresh 



374 A URORA 

In finer motions of the lips and lids. 

Slie said, in speaking of it, ' if a flower 
Were thrown you out ot heaven at inter- 
vals. 
You'd soon attain to a trick of looking 

up,— 
And so with her.' She counted me her 

years, 
Till / felt old ; and then she counted me 
Her sorrowful pleasures, till I felt 

ashamed. 
She told me she was fortunate and calm 
On such and such a season ; sate and 

sewed; 
With no one to break up her crystal 

thoughts ; 
While rhymes from lovely poems span 

around 
Their rmging circles of ecstatic tune. 
Beneath the moistened finger of the 

Hour. 
Her parents called her a strange, sickly 

child, 
Not good for much, and given to sulk 

and stare. 
And smile into the hedges and the clouds, 
And tremble if one shook lier from her 

fie 
By any blow or word even. Out-door 

jobs 
Went ill with her ; and household quiet 

work 
She was not born to. Had they kept 

the north. 
They might have had their pennyworth 

out of her 
Like other parents, m the factories : 
(Your cliildren work for you, not you for 

them. 
Or else they better liad been choked with 

air 
The first breath drawn ;) but, in this 

tramping life. 
Was nothing to be done with such a 

child 
But tramp and tramp. And yet she 

knitted hose 
Not ill, and was not dull at needlework ; 
And all the country people gave her 

pence 
For darning stockings past their natural 

age, 
And patching petticoats from old to new, 



LEIGH. 

And other light work done for thrifty 

wives. 

Oiie Jay, said Marian. — the sun shone 

that day — 
Her nvj.her had been badly beat, and 

felt 
The bruises sore about her wretched 

soul, 
(That must have been :) sh? came in 

suddenly, 
And snatching in a sort of breathless 

rage 
Her daughter's headgear comb, let down 

the hair 
Uiion her like a sudden waterfall 
Then drew her drenched and passive by 

the arm 
Outside ihe hut they lived in. When 

the chi'd 
Could clear her blinded face fiom all that 

stream 
Of ti esses . . there, a man sood, with 

beasts' eyes 
That seemed as they would swallow her 

alive 
Complete in bodv and spirit, hair and 

all,— 
With burning stertorous breath that 

hurt her tlieek. 
He breathed so near. The mother held 

her tight. 
Saying hard between her teeth — ' Why 

wench, why wench. 
The squire speaks to you now — the 

sq lire's too good ; 
He means to set you up, and comfort 

us 
Be mannerly at least.' The child turned 

round 
And looked up'piteousin the moiher's 

face, 
(Be sure that mother's deaili bed will 

not want 
Another devil to damn, than such a 

look) 
' Oh, molher ! ' then, with desperate 

glance to heaven. 
'God. free me fiom my iroiher,' slie 

shrieked cut, 
' These mothers are too dreadfiil.' .Aid, 

will] force 
As passionate as fear, she ore lier hands 
Like lilies from the rocks, fiom hers and 

his. 




"And sprang down, bounded headlong down the steep. 
Away from both — awa^', if possible, 
As far as God, — away ! " 



A URORA 


LEIGH. 375 


And sprang down, bounded headlong 


And prayed, ' no more of that.' A wag- 


down ilie steep, 


goner 


Away from botli^away, if possible. 


Had found her in a ditch beneath the 


As far as God, — away 1 Thev yelled at 


moon. 


ber, 


As white as moonshine save tor the ooz- 


As famisbed lionnds at a bare. Sbe 


ing blood. 


heard theni yell, 


At first be thought her dsad ; but when 


She felt ber name hiss after her from the 


he had \vi)ied 


hills, 


The mouth and heard it sigh, lie raised 


Like shot from gnns. On, on. And 


her lip. 


now sbe bad cast 


And laid her in In's waggon in the straw, 


The voices off witli the uplands. On- 


And so conveyed her to the distant town 


Mad fear 


To which his business called himself, and 


Was rnnning in ber feet and killing the 


left 


ground ; 


That heap of misery at the hospital. 


The whue roads curled as if she burnt 




them up. 


Sbe stirred ; — the place seemed new and 


The green fields melted, wavside trees 


strange as death. 


fell back 


The white strait bed, with others strait 


To make room for lier. Then ber bead 


and white, 


grew vexed, 


Like graves dug side by side at measured 


Trees, fields, turned on ber and ran after 


lengths. 


her : 


And quiet people walking in and out 


She heard the quick pants of the bills 


With wonderful low voices and soft steps 


behind, 


And apparitional equal care for each. 


Their keen lir pricked her neck. She 


Astonislied her with order, silence, law: 


had lost her feet. 


And when a gentle band held out a cup, 


Could run no more, yet somehow went 


She took it, as you do at sacrament. 


as fast, 


Half awed, half melted, — not being used, 


The horizon red 'twixt steeples in the 


indeed. 


east 


To so much love as makes the form of 


So sucked her forward, forward, while 


love 


ber heart 


And courtesy of manners. Delicate 


Kept swelling, swelling, till it swelled so 


drinks 


big 


And rare white bread, to which some 


It seemed to fill her body : when it burst 


dying eyes 


And overflowed the world and swamped 


Were turned in observation. O my 


the light, 


God, 


' And now I am dead and safe,' thought 


How sick we must be, ere we make men 


Marian Erie — 


just ! 


She bad dropped, sbe had fainted. 


I tliiiik it frets the saints in heaven to 


As the sense returned, 


see 


The night had passed — xmx life's night. 


How many desolate creatures on the 


She was 'ware 


earth 


Of heavy tumbling motions, creaking 


Have learned the simple dues of fellow- 


wheels. 


ship 


The driver shouting to the lazy team 


And social comfort, in a liospital. 


That swung their rankling bells against 


As Marian did. She lay there, stunned, 


her brain ; 


half tranced. 


While, through the waggon's coverture 


And wished, at intervals of growing 


and chinks. 


sense, 


The cruel vellow morning pecked at her 


Sbe miijbt be sicker yet, if sickness 


Alive or dead upon the straw inside, — 


made 


At which her soul ached back into the 


The world so marvellous kind, the air so 


dark 


hushed. 



37^ 



AURORA LEIGF 



And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep ; 
For now she understood, (as such things 

were) 
How sickness ended very oft in heaven 
Among the unspoken raptures. Yet 

more sick. 
And sureiier happy. Then she dropped 

her lids, 
And, folding up her hands as flowers at 

night, 
Woulu lose no moment of the blessed 

time. 

She lay and seethed in fever many 

weeks ; 
But voulh was strong and overcame the 

test : 
Revolted soul and flesh were reconciled 
And fetched tock to the necessary day 
And daylii;ht di;ties. She could creep 

about 
The long bare rooms, and stare out 

drearily 
From any narrow window on the street. 
Till some one, who had nursed her as a 

friend 
Said coldly to her, as an enemy, 
' She had leave to go next week, being 

well enough,' 
While onlv her heart ached. ' Go next 

week.' ihiiught she. 
' Next week ! how would it be with her 

next week. 
Let out into that terrible street alone 
Among the pushing people, . . to go . . 

where ? ' 

One dav. the last before the dreaded last. 
Among the convalescents, like herself 
Prepared to go next morning, she sate 

dumb. 
And heard half absentlv the women talk. 
How one was famished for her baby's 

cheeks — 
'The little wretch would know her ! a 

venr old 
And lively, like his father ! ' one was 

keen 
To get to work, and fill some clamorous 

mouths ; 
And one was tender for he dear good- 
man 
Who li.ui Tnissed her sorely, — and one, 

querulous . . 



' Would pay backbiting neighbours who 

had dared 
To talk about her as already dead.' — 
And one was proud . . ' and if her 

sweetheart Luke 
Had left her for a ruddier face than 

hers, 
(The gossip would be seen through at a 

glance) 
Sweet riddance of such sweethearts — let 

him hang ! 
'Twere good to have been as sick for 

such an end.' 

And while they talked, and Marian felt 

the worse 
For having missed the worst of all their 

vvrtjugs, 
A visitor was ushered through the wards 
And paused among the talkers. ' When 

he looked 
It was as if he spoke, and when he spoke 
He sang (lerhaps,' said Marian; 'could 

she' tell ? 
She only knew (so much she had chron- 
icled. 
As seraphs might the making of the sun) 
That he who came and spake, was 

Romney Leigh, 
And then, and there, she saw and heard 

him first.' 
And when it was her turn to have the 

face 
Upon her. — all those buzzing pallid lips 
Being satisfied with comfort — when he 

changed 
To Marian, saying, ^ hviA youl you're 

going, where ?' — 
She, moveless as a worm beneath a 

stone 
Which some one's stumbling foot has 

turned aside, 
Wriihed suddenly, astonished with the 

light. 
And breaking into sobs cried, ' Where 1 

go? 
None asked me till tliis moment. Can I 

say 
Where /go? when it has not seemed 

worth while 
To (lod himself, who thinks of eveiy 

one. 
To think cf me, and fix where I shall 

go?' 



AUROtiA LEIGH. 



377 



' So young,' he gently asked her, ' you 

have lost 
Your father and your mother? ' 

Both,' she said, 
' Both lost I my fatlier was burnt up with 

gin 
Or ever I sucked milk, and so is lost. 
My mother sold ine to a man last montli, 
And so my mother's lost, 'tis n.anitest. 
And I, who fled from her for miles and 

miles. 
As if I had caught sight of the fire of hell 
through some wild gap, (she was my 

nioiher, sir) 
It seems I shall be lost too, presentl)', 
And so we end, all three of us.' 

• Poor child ! ' 
He said. — with such a pity in liis voice. 
It soothed her more than her own tears. 

--' poor child 
'Tis simple that betrayal by mother's 

love 
Should bring despair of God's too. Yet 

be taught 
He's belter to us than many mothers 

are, 
And children cannot wander beyond 

reach 
Of the iweep of his white raiment. 

'louch and hold 
And if you weep still, weep where John 

was laid 
While Jesus loved him.' 

She could say the words. 
She told me, ' exactly as he uttered them 
A vear back, . . since in any doubt or 

dark 
They came out like the stars, and shone 

on her 
With just their comfort. Common 

words, perhaps 
The ministers '.n church might say the 

same ; 
But he, he made the church with what 

he spoke, — 
The difference was the miracle,' said 

she. 

riien catching up her smile to ravish- 
ment. 
She added quickly, ' I repeat his words. 
Hut not h:s tones: can any one repeat 
The music of an organ, out of clunch? 
And wjieii he said "poor child,' I shut 
my eyes I 



To feel how tenderly his voice broke 

through. 
As the ointment-box broke on the Holy 

feet 
To let out the rich medicative nard.' 

She told me how lie had raised and res- 
Cued her 

With reverent pity, as, in touching grief, 

He touched the wounds of Christ, — and 
made lier teel 

More self-respecting. Hope, he called, 
belief 

In God, — work, worship . . therefore 'ei 
us pray ! 

And thus, to snatch her soul from athe- 
isin. 

And keep it stainless from her mother's 
face. 

He sent her to a famous sempstress- 
house 

Far off in London, there to work and 
hope. 

With that they parted. She kept sight 

of Heaven, 
But not of Romney. He had good to 

do 
To others ; through the days and througli 

the nights 
She sewed and .sewed and sewed. She 

drooped sometimes. 
And wondered, while along the tawny 

light 
She struck the new thread into her 

needle's eye. 
How people without mothers on the 

hills 
Could choose the town to live in I — then 

she drew 
The stitch, and mused how Romney's 

face would look 
And if 'twere likely he'd remember her's, 
When they too had their meeting after 

death. 



FOURTH BOOK. 

They met still sooner. 'Twas a year 

from thence 
When Lucy Gresham, the sick sempstress 

girl. 
Who sewed by Marian's chair so still and 

quick, 



378 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And leant her head upon its back to 

cough 
More freely when, the mistress turning 

round, 
The others took occasion to laugh out, 
Gave up at last. Among the workers, 

spoke 
A bold girl with black eyebrows and red 

lips, 
' You know the news ? Wlio's dying, do 

you think ? 
Our Lucy Gresham. I expected it 
As little as Nell Hart's wedding. Blush 

not, Nell, 
Thy curls be red enough without thy 

cheeks ! 
And, some day, there'll be found a man 

to dote 
On red curls. — Lucy Gresliam swooned 

last night. 
Dropped sudden in the street while going 

home ; 
And now the baker says, who took lier 

up 
And laid her by her grandmother in bed, 
He'll give her a week to die in. Pass 

the silk. 
Let's hope he gave her a loaf too, within 

reach. 
For oiherwise they'll starve before they 

die. 
That funny pair of bedfellows 1 Miss 

Bell, 
I'll thank you for the scissors. The old 

crone 
Is paralytic— that's the reason why 
Our Lucy's thread went faster than her 

breath, 
Which went too quick, we all know. 

Marian Erie ! 
Why, Marian Erie, you're not the fool 

• to cry ? 
Your tears spoil Lady Waldemar's new 

dress. 
You piece of pity ! ' 

Marian rose up' straight. 

And, breaking through the talk and 
through the work, 

Went outward, in the face of their sur- 
prise. 

To Lucy's home, to nurse her back to 
life 

Or down to death. She knew, by such 
an act 



All place and grace were forfeit in the 

house, 

Whose mistress would supply the miss- 
ing hand 

With necessary, not inhuman haste. 

And take no blame. But pity, too, had 
dues; 

She could not leave a solitary soul 

To founder in the dark, while she sate 
still 

And lavished stitches on a lady's hem 

As if no .itlier work were paramount. 

' Why. (jod.' thought Marian, ' has a 
missing hand 

This moment ; Lucy wants a drink, per- 
haps. 

Let others miss me ! never miss me, 
God ! ' 

So Marian sat by Lucy's bed content 
With duty, and was strong, tor recom- 
pense. 
To hold the lamp of human love arm- 

high 
To catch the death-strained eyes and 

comfort them, 
Until the angels, on the luminous side 
Of death, had got theirs ready. And she 

said. 
When Lucy thanked her sometimes, 

called her kind. 
It toviclied her strangely. ' Marian Erie 

called kind ! 
What, Marian, beaten and sold, who 

could not die ! 
'Tis verily good fortune to be kind. 
All* you,' she said, ' who are born to 

such a grace. 
Be sorry for the unlicensed class, the 

IKior, 
Reduced to think the best good fortune 

means 
That others, simply, should be kind to 

them.' 

From sleep to sleep while Lucy slid 

away 
So gently, like a light upon a hill. 
Oi wliich none names the moment that 

it goes 
Though all see when 'tis gone, — a man 

came in 
And stood beside the bed. The old idiot 

wretch 
Screamed feebly, like a baby overlain. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



379 



' Sir, sir. you won't mistake me for llie 

corpse ? 
D'oa't look -(t me, sir ! never bury me I 
Altlioiigli I lie here I'm as live as you, 
Kxcept my legs and arms, — I eat and 

drink. 
And mulerstand, — (tliat you're the gen- 
tleman 
Who fits tlie fimerals up, Heaven speed 

you. sir.) 
And certainly I should be livelier still 
If Lucy here . . sir, Lucy is the 

corpse . . 
Had worked more properly to buy me 

wine : 
Bnt Lucy, sir was always slow at work, 
I shan't lose much by Lucy. Marian 

Erie. 
Speak up and show the gentleman the 

corpse.' 

And then a voice said, ' Marian Erie.' 

She rose : 
It was the hour for angels — there, stood 

hers ! 
She scarcely marvelled to see Romney 

Leigh. 
As light November snows to empty 

nests. 
As grass to graves, as moss to mildewed 

stones, 
As July suns to ruins, through the rents, 
As niinisteiing spirits to mourners, 

through a loss, 
As Heaven itself to men, through pangs 

of death 
He came uncalled wherever grief liad 

come. 
'And so,' said Marian Erie, 'we met 

anew,' 
And added softly, ' so, we sliall not part.' 
He was not angry that she had left the 

house 
Wherein he placed her. Well — she had 

feared it might 
Have vexed him. Also, when he found 

her set 
On keeping, though the dead was out of 

sight, 
That lialfdead, lialf-live body left be- 
hind 
With cankerous heart and flesh, — which 

took your best 
And cursed you for the little good it 

did. 



(Could any leave the bed-rid wretch 

alone. 
So jovle.ss she was thankless even to 

God, 
Much more to you ?) he did not say 'twas 

well. 
Yet Marian tliought he did not take it 

ill.— 
Since day by day he came, and every 

day 
She felt withm his utterance and his eyes 
A closer, tenderer presence of the soul. 
Until at last he said, ' We shall not 

part.' 

On that same day, was Marian's work 

complete : 
She had smoothed the empty bed, and 

swept the floor 
Of coffin sawdust, set the chairs anew 
The dead had ended gossip in, and 

stood 
In that poor room so cold and orderly, 
'I'lie door-key in her hand, prepared to 

Ro 
As they had, howbeit not their way. He 

spoke. 



' Dear Marian, of one clav God made us 

all. 
And though men push and poke and 

paddle in't 
(As children play at fashioning dirt-pies) 
And call their fancies by the name of 

facts. 
A-isuming difference, lordship, privilege, 
When all's plain dirt, — they come back 

to it at last ; 
The first grave digger proves it with a 

spade. 
And pass all even. Need we wait for 

this. 
You, Marian, and I, Romney?' 

She. at that. 
Looked blindly in his face, as when one 

looks 
Through driving autumn-rains to find the 

sky. 
He went on speaking. 

' Marian, I bein"; born 
What men call noble, and you, issued 

fiom 
The noble people, — though the tyrannous 

sword 



380 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Which pierced Christ's lieart, has cleft 

the world in twain 
''I'wixt class and class, opposing rich to 

poor, 
Sliali lue keep parted ? Not so. Let 

us lean 
And strain together rather, eacli to each, 
Compress the red lips of this gaping 

wound. 
As far as two souls can, — ay, lean and 

leajiue, 
I, from my superabundance, — from your 

want 
You, — ^joining in a protest 'gainst the 

wrong 
On both sides ! ' 

All the rest, he held her hand 
In speaking, which confused the sense of 

niucli ; 
Her lieart against his words beat out so 

thick. 
They might as well be written on the 

dust 
Where some poor bird, escaping from 

hawk's beak, 
Has dropjied and beats ts shuddering 

wiiii;s. — the lines 
Are rubl)ed so, — yet 'twas something like 

to tliis, 
■ — ' That tliey two, standing at the two 

ex:remes 
Of social classes, had received one seal. 
Been dedicate and drawn beyond them- 
selves 
To mercy and ministration, — he, indeed. 
Through what he knew, and she, through 

what she felt. 
He, by man's conscience, she, by wo- 
man's heart. 
Relinquishing their several 'vantage 

posts 
Of wealtliy ease and honourable toil. 
To work with God at love. And since 

God willed 
That putting out his hand to touch tliis 

ark. 
He found a woman's hand there, he'd 

accept 
The sign too, hold the tender fingers 

fast. 
And say, ' My fellow-worker, be my 

wife ! ' 

She told the tale with simple, rustic 
turns, — 



Strong leaps of meaning in her sudden 
eyes 

That took the gaps of any imperfect 
phrase 

Of the unschooled speaker: I have rather 
writ 

The thing I understood so, than the 
tiling' 

I lieard so. And I cannot render right 

Her quick gesticulation, wild yet soft, 

Self startled from tlie habitual mood she 
used. 

Half sad, half languid, — like dumb crea- 
tures (now 

A rustling bird, and now a wandering 
deer. 

Or squirrel 'gainst the oak-gloorTi flash- 
ing up 

His sidelong burnished head, in just hei 
way 

Of savage spontaneity.) that stir 

Abruptly the green silence of the woods, 

And make it stranger, holier, more pro- 
found ; 

As Nature's general heart confessed itsell 

Of life, and then fell backward on re- 
pose. 

I kissed the lips that ended.—' So in- 
deed 

He loves you. Marian?' 

' Loves me ! ' She looked up 

With a child's wonder when you ask 
him first 

Who made the sun — a puzzled blush, 
that grew. 

Then broke off in a rapid radiant smile 

Of sure solution. ' Loves me ! lie loves 
all,— 

And me, of course. He had not a.sked 
me else 

To work with him for ever and be liis 
w ife. ' 

Her words reproved me. This perhaps 

was love — ■ 
To have its hands too full of gifts to 

give. 
For putting out a hand to take a gift ; 
To love so much, the perfect round of 

Includes, in strict conclusion, being 

loved : 
As Eden dew went up and fell again. 
Enough for watering Eden. Obviously 



AO'KORA LEIGH. 



38t 



Slie hid not thouglit about his luve at 

all : 
'I'he c.itaiacts of her soul had poured 

iheiiiselves. 
And risen selt-crowned in rainbow ; would 

she ask 
Who crowned her? — it sufficed that she 

was crowned. 
With women of my class, 'tis otherwise; 
We h.iqgle for the small change of our 

gold. 
And So much love accord for so much 

love. 
Rialto prices. Are we therefore wrong? 
If marriage be a contract, look to it then. 
Contracting parlies should be equal, 

just ; • 

But if a simple fealty on one side, 
A meie religion. — right to give, is all, 
And certain brides of Europe duly ask 
To mount tiie pile as Iiidian widows do, 
The spices of their tender youth heaped 

up. 
The jewels of their gracious virtues 

worn. 
More gems, more glory, — to consume 

entire 
For a living husband : as the man's 

alive. 
Not dead, the woman's duty by so 

much. 
Advanced in England beyond Hindos- 

tan. 

I sate there musing, till she touched my 

hand 
With hers, as softly as a strange white 

bird 
She feared to startle in touching. ' You 

are kind. 
But are you, peradventure, vexed at 

heart 
Because your cousin takes me for a wife? 
1 know I am not worthy — nay, in truth, 
I'm glad cn't, since, for that, he chooses 

me. 
He likes the poor things of the world the 

best ; 
I would not therefore, if I could, be 

rich, 
't pleisures him to stoop for buttercups ; 
i would not be a rose upon the wall 
A queen might stop at, near the palace- 
door, 



To say to a courtier, ' Pluck that lose 

for me, 
' It's prettier than the rest.' O Romney 

Leigh ! 
I 'd ratlier tar be trodden by his foot. 
Than lie in a great queen's bosom.' 

Out of breath 
She paused. 

' Sweet Marian, do you disavow 
The roses with that face ? ' 

She dropt her head. 
As if the wind liad caught that flower of 

her. 
And bent it in the garden,- then looked 

up 
With grave assurance. ' Well, you think 

me bold ! 
But so we all are, when we're praving 

God. 
And if I'm bold — yet, lady, credit me. 
That, since I know myself for what I 

am. 
Much fitter for his handmaid than his 

wife, 
I'll prove the handmaid and the wife at 

once. 
Serve tenderly, and love obediently. 
And be a worthier male, perhaps, than 

some 
Who are wooed in silk among their 

learned books ; 
While / shall set myself to read his eyes, 
'J'ill such glow plainer to me than the 

French 
To wisest ladies. Do you think I'll miss 
A letter, in the spelling of his mind ? 
No more than tliey do when tliey sit and 

write 
Their flying words with flickering wild- 
fowl tails. 
Nor ever pause to ask how many i%. 
Should that be y or i — they know't so 

well : 
I've seen them writing, when I brought 

a dress 
And waited,— floating out their soft white 

hands 
On shining paper. But they're hard 

sometimes. 
For all those hands ! — we've used out 

many nights. 
And worn the yellow daylight into shreds 
Which flapped and shivered down our 

aching eyes 
Till night appeared more tolerable, Just 



3S2 



AURORA LEIGH. 



That pretty ladies might look beautiful, 
Who said at last . . ' You're lazy in that 

house ! 
' You're slow in sending home the work, 

— 1 count 
' I've waited near an hour for't.' Pardon 

me, 
I do not blame them, madam, nor mis- 
prize : 
They are fair and gracious ; ay, but not 

like you. 
Since none but you has Mr. Leigh's own 

blood 
Both noble and gentle, — and without 

it . . well, 
They are fair, 1 said ; so fair, it scarce 

seems strange 
That, flashing out in any looking-glass 
The wonder of tlieir glorious brows and 

breasts. 
They are charmed so, they forget to look 

behind 
And mark how pale we've grown, we 

pitiful 
Remainders of the world. And so jier- 

haps 
If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife from 

these, 
Slie might . . although he's better than 

her best, 
And dearly slie would know it . . steal 

a tlu>ught 
Which should be all his, an eye-glance 

from his face, 
To plunge into the mirror opposite 
In search of her own beauty's pearl : 

while / . . 
Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigli 

silk 
For winfer-wear when bodies feel a-cold, 
And I'll be a true wife to your cousin 

Leigh.' 

Before I answered he was there himself. 
1 think he had been standing in the 

roojn 
And listened probably to lialf her talk. 
Arrested, turned to stone, — as white as 

stone 
Will tender sayings make men look so 

white ? 
He loves lier then profoundly. 

' You are here, 
Aurora? Here I meet you ! '—We 

clasped liands. 



' Even so, dear Romney. Lady Walde- 

mar 
Has sent me in haste to find a cousin of 

mine 
Who shall be.' 

' Lady Waldemar is good.' 

' Here's one, at least, who is good,' I 

siglied, and touched 
Poor Marian's happy head, as, doglike 

she . 

Most passionately patient, waited on, 
A-trenible for her turn of greeting words; 
' I've sat a full hour with your Marian 

Erie, 
And learnt the thing by heart, — and, 

from my heart. 
Am therefore competent to give you 

thanks 
For such a cousin.' 

' You accept at last 
A gift from me, Aurora, without scorn ? 
At last I please you?'- How his voice 

was changed ! 

' You cannot please a woman a^gainst hel 
will, 

And once you vexed me. Shall we 
speak of that ? 

We'll say, then, you were noble in it all 

And I not ignorant — let it pass. And 
now 

You please me, Romney, when you 
please yourself; 

So, please you, be fanatical in love. 

And I'm well pleased. Ah, cousin ! at 
the old hall. 

Among Ihe gallery portraits of our 
Leighs, 

We shall not find a sweeter signory 

Than this pure forehead's.' 

Not a word he said. 

How arrogant men are ! — Even philan- 
thropists. 

Who try to take a wife up in the way 

They put down a subscription-cheque, — 
if once 

She turns and says, ' I will not tax you 
so, 

Most charitable sir,'— feel ill at ease, 

As though she had wronged them some- 
how. I suppose 

We woitian should remember what we 
are, 

And not throw back an obolus inscribed 



AURORA LEIGH. 



383 



\rViih Csesar's image, lightly. I resum- 
ed. 

■ It strikes me, some of those sublime 
Vandykes 

W'.Mfc not too p^oud to make good saints 
in heaven ; 

And if so, then they're not too proud to- 
day 

|To bow down (now the ruffs are off their 
necks) 

And own this good, true, noble Marian, 
. . yours, 

And mine, I'll say ! — For poets (bear 
the word) 

Half-poets even, are still whole demo- 
crats, — 

Oh, not that we're disloyal to the high, 

Biit loyal to the low, and cognisant 

Oi the less scrutable majesties. Forme, 

I comprehend your choice— I justify 

Your right in choosing.' 

' No. no, no,' he sighed. 

With a sort of melancholy impatient 
scorn, 

As some grown man. who never had a 
child. 

Puts by some child who plays at being a 
man, 

— ' You did not, do not, cannot compre- 
hend 

My choice, my ends, my motives, nor 
myself: 

No matter now — we'll let it pass, you 
say. 

I thank you for your generous cousin- 
ship 

Which helps this present ; I accept for 
her 

Your favourable thoughts. We're fallen 
on days, 

We two who are not poets, when to wed 

K..-q;ures less mutual love than common 
love, 

I'or two together to bear out at once 

Upon the loveless many. Work in 
pairs, 

\\ galley-conplings or in marriage-rings, 

'I'ljc; difference lies in the honour, not the 
work, — 

And such we're bound to, I and she. 
Rut love, 

[V'ou poets are benighted in this age; 

'1 he hour's too late for catching even 
mot lis, 



You've gnats instead,) love ! — love's fool- 
paradise 

Is out of date, like Adam's. Set a swan 

To swim the Trenton, rather tlian true 
love 

To float its fabulous plumage safely 
down 

The cataracts of this loud transition- 
time, — 

Whose roar, for ever henceforth in my 
ears 

Must keep me deaf to music' 

There, I turned 

And kissed poor Marian, out of discon- 
tent. 

The man had bafiled, chafed me, till I 
flung 

For refuge to the woman, — as, some- 
times. 

Impatient of some crowded room's close 
smell, 

You throw a window open and lean out 

To breathe a long breath in the dewy 
night 

And cool your angry forehead. She, at 
least. 

Was not built up as walls are, brick by 
brick : 

Each fancy squared, each feeling ranged 
by line, 

The very heat of burning youth applied 

To indurate forms and systems ! excel- 
lent bricks, 

A well-built wall, — which stops you on 
the road. 

And, into which, you cannot see an inch 

Although you beat your head against it 
— pshaw ! 

' Adieu,' I said, ' for this time, cousins 

both ; 
And, cousin Romiiey, pardon me the 

word. 
Be happy !-oh, in soine esoteric sense 
Ot course I— I mean no Iiarm in wishing 

well. 
Adieu, my Marian :— may she come to 

me, 
Dear Romney, and be married from my 

house ? 
It is not part of your philosophy 
To keep your bird upon the blackthorn ? ' 

' Av," 
He answered, ' but it is :— I take my wife 



3S4 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Directly from the people, — and she 

tomes 
A^ Austria's datigliter to imperial Franc?, 
Ueiwixt her eagles, blinking not lier 

race. 
From M I'fsret's Conrt at garret-height, 

to meet 
And wed me at St. James's, nor pnt off 
Her gown of serge for that. Tlie things 

we do, 
Wc do: we'll wear no mask, as if we 

blushed.' 

' Dear Romney, you're the poet,' I re- 

jihed, 
lint felt my smile too mournful for my 

word, 
And turned and went. Ay, masks, I 

thought,- beware 
Of ira'.;ic masks we lie before the glass, 
Uiiiil'icd on the cothurn hall a yard 
Above tlie natmal statme ! we would 

jilay 
Heroic parts to ourselves,,— and end, 

perhaps. 
As i:n|)otently as Athenian wives 
Who shrieked in fits at the Kumenides. 

His foot pursued me down the stair. 
' At least. 

You'll suffer me to walk with you beyond 

'J'hese hideous streets, these graves, 
wlieie men alive, 

Packed close wiili earthworms, burr un- 
consciously 

About the pLague tliat slew them; let 
me go. 

'J'lie very women pelt their souls in mud 

At any «oinan who walks here alone. 

How came you here alone ? — you are 
ignorant.' 

We had a strange and melancholy walk : 

The night came drizzling downward in 
dark rain ; 

And, as we walked, the colour of the 
time. 

The act, the presence, my hand upon his 
arm. 

His voice in my ear, and mine to my 
own sense. 

Appeared unnatural. We talked modern 
books, 

And daily papers ; Spanish marriage- 
schemes, 



And English climate -was't f o cold last 

yea i ? 
And will the wind change by to-morrow 

morn ? 
Can Gnizot stand? is London full? is 

trade 
Compeiiive ? has Dickens turned his 

hinge 
A pinch upon the fingers of llie great? 
And are jiotatoes to grow mvthical 
Like moly ? will the apple die out too? 
Which way is the wind to night? south- 
east ? due east ? 
We talked on fast, while every common 

word 
Seemed tangled with the tlumder at one 

end. 
And ready to pull down njion our heads 
A terror out of sight. And \ei lo | ause 
Were snrelier mortal: we tore greedily 

All silence, all the innocent bveaihing- 

points, 
As it', like pale conspirators in haste. 
We tore u|) jiapers where our signatures 
Imperilled us to an ugly shame or death. 

T cannot tell you why it was. ' fis plain 

We had not loved nor hated : wherefore 
dread 

To snill Eunpowder on ground safe from 
fne?- 

Perhaps we had lived too closely, to di- 
verge 

So absolutely : leave two clocks, they 
say. 

Wound up to different liours, upon one 
■shelf. 

And slowly, through the interior wlieels 
of each. 

The blind mechanic motion sets itself 

A throb 10 feel out for the nuitual lime. 

It was not so with us, indeed. While 
he 

Struck midnight, I kept striking six at J 
dawn. 

While he marked judgment, I, redemp- 
tion day : 

.^nd Slid) exception to s general law, 

Imperious upon inert matier even, 

Might make us, each to either, insecure, 

A beckoning mystery or a troubling fear. 

I mind me, when we parted at the door. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



335 



IIo'.v ?trniic;e hi?; good-niglit sounded, — 
liKf ^I'tiil night 

llcside a cle.ahbcd, where the inonow's 
sail 

I5 sure lo come loo late for more good 
days. 

And all lliat iii:;ht I thought . . 'Good- 
night,' said he. 

And sn. a r.iontIi passed. Let r.io set it 

down 
At once, — I have been wrong, I have 

beea wrong. 
We are wrong always wlicn wo thiak loo 

ninth 
Of what we think or are; aibeit onr 

thonglits 
!!» veriiy bitter as self-saciifice. 
We're not less selfibli. If we sleep o;i 

rocks 
Or roses, sleeping past the hour of noon 
We're lazy, 'iliis I write against mv- 

.self 
I had done a duty in tl'.e visit paid 
To Mririan. and was ready otherwise 
'i'ogive the witness of uiy presence and 

name 
Wlieaever she should marrv. — Whicli, I 

thought, 
Sufficed. I even liad cast into tJie scale 
An overweight of juoLca toward the 

match ; 
The [..ady Walden-.ar had missed her 

tool. 
Had broken it in the lock as being too 

straight 
For a crooked purpose, while poor Ma- 
rian Erie 
Missed nothing in my accents or my 

acts : 
I had not been ungenerous on the whole. 
Nor yet untender ; so. enough I felt 
Tired, overworked : thisniarriagesome- 

wliat Jarred, 
Or, if it did not, all the bridal noise . . 
'I'lie pricking of the map of lile with 

pins. 
In schemes of . . ' Here we'll go,' and 

' I'here we'll stay,' 
And ' everywhere we'll prosper in our 

love,' 
Was scarce my business. Let them 

order it ; 
Who else should caro ? 1 threw inyself 

aside. 



As one who had done her work and 
shuts her eyes 

To rest the bctier. 

I, who should have known, 

Forereckoned mischie* ! Where we dis- 
avow 

Being keeper to our brother we're his 
Cain. 

I might have held that poor child to my 
heart 

A litile longer 1 'twould have hurt ma 
much 

To h.ive hastened by its beats the mar- 
riage day. 

And ke[U her safe meantime from tamp- 
ering hands 

Or, peradveuiure, traps. What drew mo 
back 

From telling Romney plainly the de- 
signs 

Of Lady VValdemar, as spoken out 
lo me . . me? had 1 any right, ay, right. 

With womaniy coninassiou and reserve 

'I'o break the fall of woman s impu- 
dence? — 

To stand by calmly, knowing what I 
knew, 

^^nd hear him call her good ? 

Distrust that word. 

' There is none good save God,' said 
Jesus Christ. 

If He once, in the tirst creation-week. 

Called creatures good, — for ever after- 
ward. 

The Devil only has done it, and his 
heirs, 

The knaves who win so, and the fool,- 
vv'ho lose ; 

The word's grown dangerous. In the 
middle age, 

I think they called inalignant fays and 
imps 

Good people. A good neighbour, even 
in this. 

Is fatal sometimes, — cuts your mornin2 
up 

To mince-meat of the very smallest 
talk. 

Then helps to sugar her bohea at night 

With your reputation. I have known 
good wives. 

As chaste, or nearly so, as Potiphar'n ; 

And good, good mothers, who would use 
a child 



3S6 



ArJKORA LEIGH. 



To better an Intrigue ; good friends, 

beside, 
(Very good) who liung succinctly round 

your necli 
And sucl<ed your breath, ns cats are 

fabled to do 
By sleeping infants. And we all have 

known 
Good critics who have stamped out 

poet's hopes ; 
Good statesmen who pulled ruin on the 

state ; 
Good patriots who for a theory risked a 

cause ; 
Good kings who disembowelled for a 

fax ; 
Good popes who brought all good to 

jeopardy ; 
Good Christians who sate still in easy 

chairs 
And damned the general world for stand- 
ing up. - 
Now may tlie good God pardon all good 

men I 

How bitterly I EV>eak, — how certainly 
The innocent white milk in us is turned, 
By much persistent shining of the sun ! 
Sliake I'p the sweetest in us long eni)uj;h 
With me.i, it drops to foolish curd, too 

sour 
To feed the most untender of Christ's 

lambs. 

I should have thought . . a woman of 

the world 
Like her I'm meaning, — centre to her- 

selt' 
Who has wheeled on her own pivot half a 

life 
In i.solated self-love and self-will, 
As a windmill seen at distance radiating 
Its delicaic white vans against the sky, 
So soft and soundless, simply beautiful. 
Seen nearer . . what a roar and tear it 

makes, 
How it grinds and bruises ! . . if she 

loves at last 
Her love's a e-adjnstment of self-love, 
No more ; a need felt of another's use 
To her one advantage, — as the mill wants 

giain, 
The fire w-ants fuel, the very wolf wants 

prey, 
And none of ihesQ is more untcrupulous 



Than such a charming woman when she 
loves. 

She'll not be thwarted by an obstacle 

So triflnig as . . her soul is, . . much 
less yours ! — 

Is God a consideration ? — she loves ^o?<, 

Not God; she will not flinch for Him 
indeed: 

She did not for the Marchioness of 
Perth, 

When wanting tickets for the fancy-ball. 

She loves you, sir, with passion, to luna- 
cy ; 

She loves you like her diamonds . . al- 
most. 

Well, 

A month passed so, and then the notice 
came ; 

On such a day the marriage at the 
church. 

I was not backward. 

Half St. Giles in frie/.e 

Was bidden to meet St. James in cloth- 
of go!d, 

And, alter contract at the altar, pass 

To eat a mariiage feast on Hampstead 
Heath. 

Of course the people came in uncom- 
pelled. 

Lame, blind, and worse — sick, sorrowful, 
and worse. 

The lunnours of the peccant social 
wound 

All pressed out, poured down upon Pim- 
lico. 

Exasperating the unaccustomed air 

With hideous interfusion: you'd sup- 
pose 

A finished generation, dead of plague, 

Swept outward from their graves into 
the sun. 

The moil of death upon them. What a 
sight ! 

A holiday of miserable men 

Is sadder than a burial-day of kings. 

They clogged the streets, they oozed into 

the church 
In a dark slow stream like blood. To 

see that ."sight, 
The noble ladies stood up in their pews. 
Some pale tor tear, a few as red lor hate. 
Some simply curious, some just insolent. 
And some in wondering scoin, — ' What 

next? what next? ' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



3&7 



These crusliecl tlieir delicate rose-lips 
frojii the smile 

That misbecame them in a holy place, 

With broidered hems of perhimed hand- 
kerchiefs ; 

Those passed the salts with confidence 
of eyes 

And simultaneons sliiver of moire silk; 

Wliile all the aisles, alive and black 
with heads, 

Crawled slowly toward the altar from 
the street. 

As bruised snakes crawl and hiss out of 
a hole 

With shuddering involution, swaying 
slow 

From right to left, and then iVom left 
to right, 

In pants and pauses. What an ugly 
crest 

Of faces rose upon you everywhere 
• From that crammed mass ! you did not 
usually 

See faces like them in the open day : 

They hide in cellars, not to make you 
mad 

As Roinnev Leigh is. — Faces ! — O mv 
God. 

We call those, faces ? men's and wo- 
men's . . ay. 

And children's ; — babies, iianging like a 
rag 

Forgotten on their mother's neck, — poor 
mouths, 

Wiped clean of mother's milk by moth- 
. er' s blow 

Before they are taught her cursing. 
Faces ? . . phew. 

We'll call them vices festering to des- 
pairs. 

Or sorrows petrifying to vices: not 

A finger-touch of God left whole on 
them ; 

All ruined, lost — the countenance worn 
out 

As the garment, the will dissolute as the 
act'; 

The passions loose and drangling in the 
dirt 

To trip the foot up at the first free 
step ! 

Those, faces ! 'twas as if you had stirred 
up hell 

To heave its lowest dreg-fiends upper- 
most 



In fierv swirls of slime, — such strangled 

fronts. 
Such obdurate jaws were thrown up 

constantly 
To twit you with your race, corrupt 

your blood. 
And grind to devlish colours all your 

dreams 
Henceforth, . . though, haply, yen 

should drop asleep 
By clink of silver waters, in a nuise 
On Raffael's mild Madonna of the Bird. 

I've waked and slept through many 

nights and days 
Since then, — but still that day will catch 

my breath 
Like a nightmare. There are fatal days, 

indeed, 
In which the fibrous years have taken 

loot 
So deeply, that they quiver to their tops 
Whene're you stir the dust of such a day. 

My cousin met me with his eyes and 
hand. 

And then, with just a word, . . that 
' Marian Erie 

Was coming with her bridesmaids 
presently,' 

IMade haste to place me by the altar- 
stair. 

Where he and other noble gentlemen 

And high-born ladies, waited for the 
bride. 

We waited. It was early : there was 

time 
For greeting, and the morning's com- 
pliment ; 
And gradually a ripple of women's talk 
Arose and fell, and tossed about a spray 
Of English .ys, soft as a silent luish. 
And, notwithstanding, quite as audible 
As louder phrases tlnown out by the men. 
— ' Yes, really, if we need to wait in 

church. 
We need to talk there.' — 'She? 'Tis 

Lady Ayr, 
In bine — not purple ! that's the dow- 
ager.' 
— ' She looks as young.' — 'She flirts as 

young, you mean. 
Why if you had seen her upon Thursday 
night, 



3S8 



AURORA LEIGH. 



You'd call Miss Norrls modest.' — ' Ymi 

again ! 
I wnlized with j-ou three hours bade. 

Up at six, 
Up still at ten : scarce time to change 

one's shoes. 
I feel as white and sull<y as a ghost, 
So piay don't speak to me, 1-ord Belch- 
er.' — ' No, 
I'll look at you instead, and it's enough 
While you have that fsce.' — ' In church, 

my lord ! fie, fie ! ' 
— 'Adair, you stayed for the Division?' 

— ' Lost 
By one.' — 'The devil it is! I'm sorry 

for't. 
And if I had uot promised Mistress 

Grove ' . . 
— ' You might have kept your word to 

Liverpool.' 
' Constituents must remember, after all, 
We're mortal.' — ' We remind them of it.' 

— ' Hark, 
The bride comes ! Here she comes, in 

a stream of milk ! ' 
— 'There? Dear, you are asleep still; 

don"t you know 
The five Miss Granvilles? always dress- 
ed ir. white 
To show they're ready to be married.' — 

' Lower ! 
The aunt is at your elbow.'—' Lady 

Mand, 
Did Lady Waldemar tell you she had 

seen 
This gir! of Leigh's ? '— ' No,— wait ! 

'twas Mistress Brookes, 
Who told me Lady Waldemar lold 

her - 
No, 'twasn't Mrs. Brookes.' — ' She's 

pretty ?' — ' Who? 
Mrs. Brookes? Lady Waldemar?' — 

' How hot I 
Pray is t the law to-day we're not to 

breathe? 
You're treading on my shawl — I thank 

you, sir ' 
— ' They say the bride's a mere child, who 

can't read. 
But knows the things she shouldn't, with 

wide-awake 
Great eyes. I'd go through fire to look 

at her.' 
— ' You do, I think.' — 'And Lady Walde- 
mar 



(You sec her; sitting close to Komney 
Leigh : 

How beautiful she looks, a little flush- 
ed !) 

Has taken up the girl, and methodised 

Leigh's folly. Should I have come here, 
you suppose, 

Except she'd asked me ;'— ' She'd have 
served hiiu more 

By marrying him herself 

' Ah — there she comes, 

The bride, at last ! ' 

' Indeed, 110. Past eleven. 

She puts off her patched petticoat to-day 

And puts on May-fair manners, so be- 

E'"? ■ , - 

By setting us to wait. — '\es, ves, this 

Leigh 

Was always odd ; it's in the blood, I 
think ;' 

His father's uncle's cousiii's second son 

Was, was . . you understand me— and' 
for him. 

He's stark I— has turned quite lunatic 
upon 

This modern question of the poor— the 
poor : 

An excellent subject when you're mode- 
rate : 

You've seen Prince Albert's model lodg- 
ing-house ? 

Does honour to his royal highness. 
Good ! 

But would he stop his carriage in Cheap- 
side 

To shake a common fellow by the fist 

Whose na.nie was . . Shakspeare? no. 
We draw a line. 

And if we stand not by our order, we 

In England, we fall headlong. Here's a 
sight,— 

A hideous sight, a most indecent sight 

My wife would come, sir, or I had kept 
lier back. 

By heaven, sir, when poor Damiens' 
trunk and limbs 

Were torn by horses, women of the 

court 
Stood by and stared, exactly as to-day 

On this dismembering of society, 

With pretty troubled faces. ' 

' Now, at last. 
She comes now.' 

' Where? who sees' you push me, sir, 
Beyond the point of what is mannerly. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



389 



You're standing, madam, on my second 

flounce 
I do beseech you.' 

' No— it's not the bride. 
Half-past eleven. How late. The 

bridegroom, mark. 
Gets anxious and goes out.' 

' And as I said. 
These Leighs ! our best blood running in 

the rut ! 
It's something awful. We had pardoned 

him 
A simple misalliance, got up aside 
For a p.iir of sky-blue eyes ; our House 

of Lords 
Has winked at such things, and we've 

all been young. 
But here's an inter-marriage reasoned 

out, 
A contract (carried boldly to the light 
To challenge observation, pioneer 
Good acts by a great example) 'twixt the 

extremes 
Of m.iriyrised society, — on the left 
The well-born, — on the right the merest 

mob. 
To treat as equals !— 'tis anarcl'.ical ! 
It means more than it says— 'tis damna- 
ble. 
Why, sir, we can't have even our coffee 

good. 
Unless we strain it.' 

' Here, Miss Leigh ! ' 

' Lord Howe, 
You're Romney's friend. What's all 

this waiting for ? ' 

' I cannot tell. The bride has lost her 
head 

(."Vud, way perhaps !) to prove lier sym- 
pathy 

With the bridegroom.' 

' What, —you also disapprove ! ' 

' Oh, / approve of nothing in the world,' 
He answered; 'not of you, still less of 

me. 
Nor even of Romney— though he's 

worth us both. 
We're all gone wrong. The tune in us 

is los* : 
And whistling down back alleys to the 

moon, 
Will never catch it. 



Let me draw Lord Howe ; 
A bora aristocrnct, bred radical. 
And educated socialist, who still 
Goes floating, on iraditions of liis kind. 
Across the theoretic flood t'roni France, 
Though, like a drenched Noah on n rot- 
ten deck, 
Scaice safer for his place there. He, at 

least. 
Will never land on Ararat, he knows, 
To recommence the world on the new 

plan : 
Indeed, he thinks, said world had better 

end ; 
He sympathises rather with tlie fish 
Outside, than with the drowned paired 

beasts within 
Who cannot couple again or multiply : 
And that's the sort of Noah he is, Lord 

Howe. 
He never could be anything complete, 
Excein a loyal, upright gentleman. 
A liberal landlord, graceful diner-out. 
And entertainer more than hospitable. 
Whom authors dine with and forget the 

hock 
Whatever he believes, and it is much. 
But no-wise certain . . now here and 

now there. 
He still has sympathies beyond his creed 
Diverting him from action. In the 

House, 
No party counts upon him, while for all 
His speeches have a noticeable weight. 
Meu like liis books too, (he has written 

books) 
Which, safe to lie beside a bishop's 

chair. 
At times outreach themselves with jets 

of fire 
At which the foremost of the progress- 
ists 
Mav warm audacious hands in passing 

■by. 
— Of stature over-tall, lounging for ease; 
Light hair, that seems to carry a wind 

in it, 
And eyes that, when they loofc on you, 

will lean 
Their whole weight lialf in indolence 

and halt 
In wishing you unmitigated pood. 
Until you know not if to flincli tiom him 
Or thank him. — lis Lord Howe. 

' We're all gone wrong,' 



390 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Said he, ' and Romney, that dear friend 

of ours, 
Is nowise right. There's one trne 

thing on earth ; 
That's love! He tal<es it up, and 

dresses it, 
And acts a play with it, as Hamlet did. 
To show what cruel uncles we have 

been. 
And how we should be uneasy in our 

minds 
While he. Prince Hamlet, weds a pretty 

maid 
(Who keeps us too long waiting, we'll 

confess) 
By symbol, to instruct us formally 
To fill the ditches up 'twixt class and 

class, 
And live together in phalansteries. 
What then ? — he's mad, our Hamlet ! 

clap his play, 
And bind him.' 

' Ah, Lord Howe, this spectacle 
Pulls stronger at us than the Dane's. 

See there ! 
The crammed aisles heave and strain and 

steam with life — 
Dear Heaven, what life ! ' 

' Why, yes, — a poet sees ; 
Which makes him different from a com- 
mon man. 
/, too, see somewhat, though I cannot 

sing : 
I should have been a poet, only that 
My mother took fright at the ugly 

world. 
And bore me tongue-tied. If you'll grant 

me now 
That Komney gives us a fine actor-piece 
To make us merry on his marriage- 
morn. 
The fable's worse than Hamlet's, I'll 

concede. 
The terrible people, old and poor and 

blind. 
Their eyes eat out with plague and 

poverty 
F'rom seeing beautiful and cheerful sights. 
We'll liken to a brutalised King Lear, 
Led out, — by no means to clear scores 

with wrongs — 
His wrongs are so far back, . . he has 

forgot ; 
All's past like youth ; but just to witness 

here 



A simple contract, — he, upon his side, 

And Regan with her sister Goneril 

And all the dappled conrtieis and court- 
fools. 

On their side. Not that any of ihtse 
would say 

They're sorry, neither. What is done, 
is done. 

And violence is now turned privilege. 

As cream turns cheese, if buried long 
enough. 

What could such lovely ladies have to do 

With the old man there, in those ill- 
odorous rags. 

Except to keep the wind-side of him ? 
Lear 

Is flat and quiet, as a decent grave ; 

He does not curse his daughters in tlie 
least. 

.5^ these his daughters.' Lear is think- 
ing of 

His porridge chiefly . . is it getting cold 

At Hampstead ? will the ale be served in 
pots ? 

Poor Lear, poor daughters ! Bravo, 
Romney's play ! ' 

A murmur and a movement drew 

around ; 
A naked whisper touclied us. Some- 
thing wrong ! 
What's wrong? The black crowd, as an 

overstrained 
Cord, quivered in vibration, and I 

saw . . 
Was that his face I saw ? . . his . . 

Romney Leigh's . . 
Which tossed a sudden horror like a 

sponge 
Into all eyes, — while himself stood white 

upon 
The topmost altar-stair, and tried to 

speak, 
And failed, and lifted higher above liis 

head 
A letter, . . as a man who drowns and 

gasps. 

' My brothers, bear with me ! I am 
very weak. 

I meant but only good. Perhaps I 
meant 

Too proudly, — and God snatched the cir- 
cumstance 



AURORA 


LEIGH. 391 


And changed it therefore. There's no 


Than make my dinner on his beef and 


marriage— none. 


beer.' — 


Slie leaves me,— she departs, — slie dis- 


At which a cry rose up — ' We'll have 


appears. 


our rights. 


I lose her. Yet I never forced her 'ay,' 


We'll have the girl, the girl ! Your l.i- 


To have lier ' no ' so cast nito my teeth, 


dies lliere 


In manner of an accusation, thus. 


Are married safely and smoothly every 


My friends, you are dismissed. Go, eat 


day. 


and drink 


And she shall not drop through into a 


According to the programme, — and fare- 


trap 


well ! " 


Because she's poor and of the people : 




sliame ! 


He ended. There was silence in the 


We'll have no tricks plavedotfbv genii j- 


church : 


folks : 


We heard a baby sucking in its sleep 


We'll see her righted.' 


At the farthest end of the aisle. Then 


Through the rage and roar 


spoke a man, 


I heard the broken words which Romney 


' Now, look to it, coves, that all the beef 


t^ung 


and drink 


Among the turbulent masses, from the 


Be not filched from us like the other 


ground 


fun ; 


He held still with his masterful jiale 


For beer's spilt easier than a woman's 


face — 


lost ! 


As huntsmen throw the ration to tlm 


This gentry is not honest with the poor ; 


pack. 


They bring us up, to trick us.' — ' Go it. 


Who, failing on it headlong, dog on dog 


Jim,' 


111 heaps of fury, rend it, swallow it up 


A woman screamed back, — ' I'm a tender 


With yelling hound-jaws, — his indignant 


soul, 


words, 


I never banged a child at two years old 


His suppliant words, his most pathetic 


And drew blood from him, but I sobbed 


words. 


for it 


Whereof 1 caught the meaning: here and 


Next moment, — and I've had a plague 


there 


of seven. 


By his gesture . . torn in morsels, yelled 


I'm tender; I've no stomach even for 


across. 


beef. 


And so devoured. From end to end, 


Until 1 know about the girl that's lost, 


the church 


That's killed, mayhap. I did misdoubt. 


Rocked rcuiid us like the sea in storm, 


at first. 


and then 


The fine lord meant no good by her or 


Broke up like the earth in earthquake. 


us. 


Men ciied out. 


He, maybe, got the upper liand of her 


' Police ' — and women stood and shrieked 


By holding up a wedding-ring, and 


for God, 


then . . 


Or dropt and swooned; or, like a herd 


A choking finger on her throat last 


of deer. 


night. 


(For whom the black woods suddenly 


And just a clever tale to keep us still. 


grow alive. 


As she is, poor lost innocent. ' Disap- 


Unleashing their wild shadows down the 


pear ! ' 


wind 


Who ever disappears except a ghost ? 


To hunt the creatures into corners, back 


And who believes a story of a ghost ? 


And forward) madly fled, or blindly fel', 


I as'c you — would a girl go off, instead 


Trod screeching underneath the feet of 


Of staying to be married? a fine tale I 


those 


A wicked man, I say, a wicked man ! 


Who fled and screeched. 


For my part I would rather starve on 


The last sight left ',0 mo 


gin 


Was Romney 's terrible calm face above 



392 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Tlie tvcmolt ! — the last sound was ' Pull 

him dcWM ! 
Strike — kill liini ! ' Stretching my un- 
reasoning aims, 
As men in dreams, "aIio vainly interpose 
'Xwixt gods and their undoing, with a 

cry 
I struggled to precipitate myself 
Head-foremost, to the rescue of my soul 
In that while face, . . till some one 

caught me back. 
And so the world went out, — I felt no 
more. 

■\Vliat followed, was told after by Lord 
Howe, 

Who bore me senseless from the strang- 
ling crowd 

In church and street, and then returned 
alone 

To see the tumult quelled. The men of 
law 

Had fallen as thunder on a roaring fire, 

And made all silent, — while the people's 
smoke 

Passed eddying slowly from the emptied 
aisles. 

Here's Marian's letter, which a ragged 

child 
Brought running, just as Romney at the 

porch 
Looked out exv-jctant of the bride. He 

.sent 
The letter to me by his friend Lord 

Howe 
Some two hours after, folded in a sheet 
On which his well known hand had left 

a word. 
Here's Marian's letter. 

' Noble friend, dear saint, 
Be patient with me. Never think me 

viie. 
Who might to-morrow morning be your 

wife 
But that I loved you more than such a 

name 
Farewell, my Romney. Let me write it 

once. — 
My Romney. 

' 'I'-'s so pretty a coupled word, 
I have no heart to pluck it with a b'ot 
We say ' my God ' sometimes, upon our 

knees, 



Who is not therefore vexed : so bear 

with it . . 
And me. I know I'm foolish, weak, and 

vain ; 
Yet most of all I'm angry with myself 
For losing your last footstep on the stair 
The last time of your coming, — yester- 
day ! 
Tlie very first time I lost step of yours. 
(Its sweetness coines the next to what 

you s|5eak) 
But yesterday sobs took me by the 

throat 
And cut me off from music. 

' Mister Leigh, 
You'll set me down as wrong m many 

things. 
You've praised me, sir, for truth, — and 

now you'll learn 
I liad not courage to be rightly true. 
I once began to tell you how she came. 
The wojnan . . and you stared upon the 

floor 
In one of your fixed thoughts . . which 

put me out 
For that day. After, some one spoke 

of me, 
So wisely, and of vou, so tenderly. 
Persuading me to silence for your sake . . 
W ;11, well ! it seems this moment I was 

wrong 
In keeping back from telling you the 

tniih : 
'I'liere might be truth betwixt us two, at 

least. 
If nothing else. And yet 'twas danger' 

ous. 
Suppose a real angel came from heaven 
To live with men and women ! he'd go 

mad. 
If no considerate hand should tie a blind 
Across his piercing eyes. 'Tis thus 

with yon: 
You see us too much in your heavenly 

light : 
I always thought so, angel, — and indeed 
There's danger tliat you beat yourself to 

death 
Against the edges of this alien world, 
In some divine and fluttering pily. 

' Yes, 
It would be dreadful for a friend of 

yours, 
To see all England thrust you out of 
doors 



A URORA LEIGH. 



393 



And mock you from the windows. You 

might say, 
Or tliink (that's worse,) ' There's some 

one in the house 
I miss and love still.' Dreadful ! 

' Very kind, 
I pray yon mark, was Lady Waldemar. 
She came to see me nine times, rather 

ten — 
So beaniiful, she hurts one like the day 
Let suddenly on sick eyes. 

'Most kind of all. 
Your cousin ! — ah, most like yon ! Ere 

you came 
She kfesed me mouth to mouth : I felt 

her soul 
Dip through her serious lips in holy 

fire. 
God help me, but it made me arrogant ; 
I almost told her that you would not 

lose 
By taking me to wife : though ever since 
I've pondered much a certain thing she 

asked . . 
'He loves you, Marian?' . . in a sort 

of mild 
Derisive sadnesss . . as a mother asks 
Her babe, ' You'll touch that star, vou 

think?' 

' Farewell ! 
I know I never touched it. 

' This is worst : 
Babes grow, and lose the hope of things 

above ; 
A silver threepence sets them leaping 

high— 
But no more stars ! mark that. 

' I've writ all night. 
Yet told yon nothing. God, if I could 

die, 
And let this letter break off innocent 
Just here ! But no — for your sake . . 

' Here's the last : 
I never could be happy as your wife, 
I never could be harmless as your friend, 
1 never will look more into your face 
Till God says, ■ Look !' I charge you, 

seek me not. 
Nor vex yourself with lamentable 

thoughts 
That peradventure I have come to grief; 
Bj sure I'm well, I'm merry, I'm at 

ease, 
But such a long way, long way, long way 

off, 



I think you'll find me sooner fn my 

grave ; 
And that's iny choice, observe. For 

what remains, 
An over-generous friend will care for ine 
And keep me happy . . happier 

'There's a blot ! 
This ink runs thick . . we light girls 

lightly weep . . 
And keep me happier . . was the thing 

to say, 
Than as your wife I could be ! — O, my 

star; 
My saint, my soul ! for surely you're my 

soul. 
Through whom God touched me ! I ant 

not so lost 
I cannot thank you for the good you did, 
The tears you stopped, which fell down 

bitterly, 
Like these— the times you made me weef 

for joy 
At hoping I should learn to write youi 

notes 
And save the tiring of your eyes, ai 

night ; 
And most for that sweet thrice you kiss 

ed my lips 
And said ' Dear Marian ' 

' 'Twould be hard to read 
This letter, for a reader half as learn'd. 
But you'll be sure to master it in spite 
Of lips and downs. My hand shakes, 1 

am blind, 
I"m poor at writing at the best, — and vl'I 
I tried to make my ^s the way yoii 

showed. 
Farewell — Christ love you. — Say ' I'ooi 

Marian ' now.' 

Poor Marian ! — wanton Marian I — waa 

it so, 
Or so? For days, her touching, foolish 

lines 
We mused on with conjectural fantasy, 
As if some riddle of a summer-cloud 
On which one tries unlike similitudes 
Of now a spotted Hydra -skin cast off. 
And now a screen of carven ivory 
That shuts the heaven's conventual se- 
crets up 
From mortals over-bold. We sought the 

sense : 
She loved hipi so perhaps (such word? 
mean love,) 



394 



AURORA LEIGH. 



That, worked on by some shrewd per- 
fidious tongue, 
(And tlien I thought of Lady Walde- 

mar) 
She lelt him, not to hurt him ; or per- 
haps 
She loved one in her class, — or did not 

love, 
But mused upon her wild bad tramping 

life 
Until the free blood fluttered at her 

heart. 
And black bread eaten by the road-side 

hedge 
Seemed sweeter than being put to Kora- 

ney's school 
Of philanthropical self-sacrifice. 
Irrevocably. — Girls are girls, beside. 
Thought I, and like a wedding by one 

rule. 
You seldom catch these birds except 

with chaff: 
They feel it almost an immoral thing 
To go out and be married in broad day, 
Unless some winning special flattery 

should 
Excuse them to themselves for't, . . ' No 

one parts 
Her hair with such a silver line as you. 
One moonbeam from the forehead to the 

crown ! ' 
Or else . . ' You bite your lip in such a 

way. 
It spoils me for the smiling of the rest ' — 
And so on. Then a worthless gaud or 

two 
To keep for love, — a ribbon for the neck. 
Or some glass pin, — they have their 

weight with girls. 

And Romney sought her many days and 

weeks : 
He sifted all the refuse of the town. 
Explored the trains, inquired among the 

ships. 
And felt the countrv through from end to 

end : ' • 

No Marian ! — Though I hinted what I 

knew, 
A friend of his had reasons of her own 
For throwing back the match — he would 

not hear : 
The lady had been ailing ever since, 
'I'he shock had harmed lier. Something 

in his tone 



Repressed me ; something in me shamed 
my doubt 

To a sigh repressed too. He went on io 
say 

That, putting questions where his Ma- 
rian lodged. 

He found she had received for visitors, 

Besides iiimselfand Lady Waldemar 

And, that once, me — a dubious woman 
dressed 

Beyond us both. The rings upon her 
hands 

Had dazed tlie children when she threw 
them pence ; 

' She wore her bonnet as the queen might 
hers. 

To show the crown,' they said, — ' a scar- 
let crown 

Of roses that had never been in bud.' 

When Romney told me that, — for now 

and then 
He came to tell me how the search ad- 
vanced. 
His voice dropped : I bent forward for 

the rest : 
The woman had been with her, it ap- 
peared. 
At first from week to week, then day by 

day, 
And last, 'twas sure . . 

1 looked upon tlie ground 
To escape the anguish of his eyes, and 

asked 
As low as when you speak to mourners 

new 
Of those they cannot bear yet to call 

dead, 
' If Marian had as much as named to 

him 
A certain Rose, an early t'riend of hers, 
A ruined creature.' 

' Never,'- Starting up 
He strode from side to side about the 

room. 
Most like some prisoned lion sprung 

awake. 
Who has felt the desert sting him through 

liis dreams. 
' What was I to her that she should tell 

me aught ? 
A friend! was / a friend? I see all 

clear. 
Such devils would pull angels out of 

heaven, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



395 



Provided tliey could reach ihem ; 'lis 
their pride ; 

And tllat's the odds 'twixt soul and body- 
plague 1 

The veriest slave who drops in Cairo's 
street, 

Cries, ' Stand off from me,' to the pass- 
engers ; 

While these blotched souls are eager to 
infect. 

And blow their bad breath in a sisler's 
face 

As if they got some ease by it.' 

I broke through. 

' Some natures catch no plagues. I've 
read of babes 

Found whole and sleeping by the spotted 
breast 

Of one a full day dead. I hold it true, 

As I'm a woman and know womanhood. 

That Marian Erie, liowever lured from 
place. 

Deceived in way, keeps pure in aim and 
ht;art 

As snow tliat's drifted from the garden- 
bank 

To the open road.' 

' I'was hard to hear him laugh. 

' The figure's happy. Well — a dozen 
carts 

And trampers will secure you presently 

A fine while snow-drift. Leave it there, 
your snow ! 

'Twill pass for soot ere sunset. Pure in 
aim? 

She's pure in aim, I grant you, — like 
my sell. 

Who tiiuught to take the world upon my 
back 

To carry it o'er a chasm of social ill. 

And e\Kl by lelting slip through impo- 
tence 

A single soul, a child's weight in a soul, 

Straigiit down the pit of hell ! yes, I and 
she 

Have reason to be proud of our pure 
aims.' 

Then softly, as the last repenting drops 

Of a thunder-shawer, he added, ' The 
poor child ; 

Poor Marian ! 'twas a luckless day for 
her. 

When first she chanced on my philan- 
thropy.' 



He drew a chair beside me, and sate 

down ; 
And I, instinctively, as women use 
Before a sweet friend's grief, — when, i.i 

his ear. 
They hum the tune of comfort though 

themselves 
Most ignorant of the special words of 

such. 
And quiet so and fortify his brain 
And give it time and strength for feeling 

out 
To reach the availing sense beyond that 

sound, — 
Went murmuring to him what, if written 

here. 
Would seem not much, yet fetched hira 

better help 
Than, peradventure, if it had been more. 

I've known the pregnant thinkers of our 

time, 
And stood by breathless, hanging on 

their lips. 
When some chromatic sequence of fine 

thought 
In learned modulation phrased itself 
To an unconjectured harmony of truth. 
And yet I've been more moved, more 

raised, I say. 
By a simple word . . a broken e.asy 

thing 
A three-years infant might at need re- 

Jieat, 
A look, a sigh, a touch upon the palm, 
Which meant less than ' I love you ' , . 

than by all 
The full-voiced rhetoric of those master- 
mouths, 

' Ah, dear Aurora,' he began at last, 

His pale lips tumbling for a sort of smile, 

'Your printer's devils have not spoilt 
your heart: 

That's well. And who knows but, long 
years ago. 

When you and I talked, you were some- 
what right 

In being so peevish with me ? You, at 
least. 

Have ruined no one through your dreams. 
Instead, 

You've lielped the facile youth live 
youth's day 

With innocent distraction, still perhaps 



,-,6 AURORA 


LEIGH. 


SiigRestive of lliings better tli,i:i your 


' Not so, my cousin,- only not asleep.' 


rliyines. 


I answered, smiling .cemly. ■ I et it be. 


Tlic litl!o t-heplierd-maiclen, ei-^ht vears 


Vou scarcely found the poet of Vauc use 


<.M, 


As drowsy as the shepherds. U hat is 


I\e seen iipo;i the iiioiintains of ^ au- 


art 


c.use. 


But life upon the larger scale, the high- 


As'.ecp i' llie sun, her head upon her 


er, 


l<nees. 


When, praduaiing tip in a spiral line 


The (locks a'll scattered, — is more lauda- 


Of sti'.l cxnaiidin^ and ascending pyres. 


ble 


It pushes loward the intense tipiiificaiick 


Tlian anv sheep-dot; trained imperfectly, 


Of all iliings, hungry tor ihi Infinite ? 


■\V1k) biles the kids through loo much 


Art's life. - and where we live, we suffer 


zeal.' 


and toil.' 


' I look 




As if I had slept, then?' 


He seemed to sift me with his painful 




eyes. 


l-te wns touched at once 


' You lake it gravely, cousin ; \ou re- 


r.y something ia my lace. Indeed 'twas 


fuse 


sure 


Your dreamland's right of conunon, and 


That he and I. — despite a year or two 


green rest. 


Ofyonn.uer life on my side, and on his 


You break the mythic turf where danced 


Thl- he.iping of the years' vvorli on the 


the nyinihs 


days. 


Willi crooked ploughs of actual life, — let 


The tlnee-hour speeches from the mcm- 


in 


ber'.s seat, 


The axes to the legendary woods, 


The liot committees in and out of doors. 


To pav the head-tax. Vou are fallen in- 


'Ihe pamphlets, 'Arguments,' 'Collec- 


deed 


tive Views,' 


On evil days, you poets, if yourselves 


Tossed out as straw before sick houses. 


Can prai.se that art of yours no other- 


.itist 


wise ; 


To show one's sick and so be trod to dirt 


And, if you cannot, . . better take a 


And no more use, — through this world's 


trade 


underground 


And be of use : 'twere cheaper for your 


The burrowing, groping effort, whence 


youth.' 


the arm 




And heart come torn, — 'twas sure that 


' Of use ! ' I softly echoed, ' there's the 


he and I 


point 


Were, after all, unequally fatigued ! 


We sweep about forever in an argu- 


That he. ia his developed manhood. 


ment ; 


stood 


Like swallows which the exasperate, dy- 


A little sunburnt by the glare of life: 


ing year 


While 1 . . it seemed no sun had shone 


Sets spinning in black circles, round ar.d 


on nie, 


round. 


So many seasons I had missed my 


Preparing for far flights o'er unknown 


Sprinjrs ; 


seas. 


My cheeks had pined and perished from 


And we . . where lend we ? ' 


their orbs, 


' Where?' he said, and sighed. 


And all the youth-blood in them had 


'The whole creation, from the hour we 


Srown white 


are born, 


As dew on autumn cyclamens; alone 


Perjilexes us with questions. Not a 


Mv eves and forehead answered for mv 


stone 


' face. 


But cries behind us. every weary step. 




' Where, where ? ' I leave stones to reply 


He said 'Aurora, you are changed — arc 


to stones. 


ill!' 


Enough fur mc and for niy fleshly heart 



AURORA LEIGH. 



To Iiaiken tlie invocations of my kir.d. 

\Vlit;n men c.ilcli hold upon my shiiddei- 
ing nerves 

And slniek, 'What lielp?\vhat liope? 
what brent', i' the house? 

What hre i' llie frost? ' I'here must be 
sonic response, 

Thongli mine fail utterly. This social 
-SiJliiux 

Who sits between the sepulchres and 
stews. 

Makes mock and mow against the crys- 
tal heavens, 

And bnUies God,— exacts a word at least 

From each man standing tn tiie side of 
God, 

However paying a sphinx-price for it. 

Wo pay it also if we hold onr peace, 

In lungs and pity. Let me speak and 
die. 

Alas ! you'll say I speak and kiil in- 
stead.' 

I pressed in tliere. ' Tlic best men, do- 

\\\% their best. 
Know peradventurc least of what they 

do: 
I\Ien usefnllest i' llio world, are simply 

used ; 
The nail that holds the wood, must pierce 

it first, 
And He a!one who wields the hammer, 

sees 
Tlie wiirk advar.ced by the earliest blow. 

Take heart.' 
'All, if I could have taken yours!' he 

said, 
' Cut lliat's ]\"st now.' Then rising . . 

' 1 will take 
At least your kindness and encourage- 
ment. 
I thank you. Dear, be happy. Sing 

your songs. 
If that's your way ! but sometimes slum- 
ber loo, 
Nor tire too much with following, out of 

breath. 
The rhvmes upon your mountains of Dc- 

liiiiit. 
Rcfleci, if Art be in truth the higher 

life. 
Yon need the lower life to stand upon 
]n order to reacli upimto that higher: 
And none can stand a-tiptoe in the place 
He cannot stand in with two stable .*'eet. 



Remember then ! — for Art's sake, hold 
your life.' 

We parted so. I held him in respect. 
1 comprehended what he was in heart 
And saciificial gieatness. P.y. bm he 
biippo^ed me a ihiiij; loo small tc deign 

to know ; 
lie blew me, plainly, from the crucib.e, 
As some inmiding, interniptiiig tly 
Not worth the ] ains u\ his aiia.\sis 
Absoibed on iiob.er subjects. Hurt a 

fly ! 

He would not for llie world : lie's pitiful 
To flies even. ' bing,' says he, 'and 

teaze me siill. 
If that's your way, poor insect.' That's 

your way. 



FIFTH BOOK. 

Aurora Leigh, be humble. Shall I 

hope 
To speak my poems in mysterious time 
With man and nature, — wiih tlie lava- 
lymph 
That trickles from successive palaxies 
Still diop by diop adown the lii.i,er of 

God 
Instill new worlds? -with summer-days 

in this. 
That scarce dare breathe they are so 

beautiiiil? 
With Siiring's delicious trouble in the 

ground 
Tormented by the quickened blood of 

loots. 
And softly pricked by g<jlden crocus- 
sheaves 
In loken of the liarvest-time of llowers? 
With winlers and with autumns, — and 

beyond 
With the human heart's large seasons, 

when it hopes 
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves? — 

with all that strain 
Of sexual passion, v\hich devours the 

flesh 
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's 

breasts 
Wliicli, round the new-made creatures 

hanging there, 
Throb luminous and harmonious liks 

pure spheres ? — 



303 



AURORA LEIGH. 



With rnultit'/.dinous life, and finally 
Willi tlie great escapings of ecstatic souls. 
Who, ill a iLish of too long prisoned 

tlanie, 
'I'heir radiant faces upward, burn away 
Tins dark of the body, issuing on a 

world 
Beyond our mortal?— can 1 speak my 

verse 
iSo plainly in tune to these things and the 

rest. 
That men shall feel it catch them on the 

quick, 
As having the same warrant over them 
To hold and move them if they will or 

no, 
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm 
Of that tlieurgic nature? 1 must fail, 
Who fail at the beginning to hold and 

move 
One man, — and he my cousin, and he 

my friend, 
And he born tender, made intelligent. 
Inclined lo i^onder the precipitous sides 
Of difficult qiiesiions ; yet obtuse to tne, 
Of ;«f , incurious ! likes me very well, 
And wishes me a paradise of good. 
Good looks, good means, and good di- 

ge'ition, — ay, 
But otherwise evades me, puts me otf 
Willi kindness, with a tolerant gentle- 
ness, — 
Too light a book for a grave man's read- 
ing ! Go, 
Aurora Leigh : be humble. 

There it is, 
We women are too apt to look to one, 
Which piovej a certain impotence in 

art. 
W^e strain out natures at doing something 

great. 
Tar less because it's something great lo 

do. 
Than haply that we, so, commend our- 
selves 
As being not small, and more apprecia- 
ble 
To some one friend. Wc must have 

mediators 
Betwixt our highest conscience and the 

judge ; 
Sonu' sweet saint's blood must quicken 

in our palins 
Or all llie lite in heaven seems slow and 
cold : 



Good only being perceived as the end of 
good, 

And God alone Jjleased, — that's too poor, 
we think. 

And not enough for us by any means. 

Ay — Romney, I remember, lold me once 

We miss tlie abstract, when we compre- 
hend. 

We miss it most when we aspire, . . and 
fail. 

Yet, so, I will not. — This vile woman's 

way 
Of trailing garments, shall not trip me 

up. 
ril have no traffic with the personal 

thought 
In art's pure temple. Must I work in 

vain. 
Without tlie approbation of a man ? 
It cannot be : it shall not. Kaine itself. 
That approbation of the general race. 
Presents a poor end, (though the arrow 

speed, 
Shot straight with vigorous finger to the 

white.) 
And the highest fame w.as never reached 

except 
By what was aimed above it. Art for 

art, 
And good for God Himself, the essen- 
tial Good I 
We'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes 

erecl, 
Although our woman hands should shake 

and tail : 
And if we fail . . But must we ?^ 

Shall I fail? 
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic 

phrase, 
' Let no one be called liappy till his 

death.' 
To which I add, — Let no one till his 

death 
Be called unhappy. Measure not ll.c 

work 
Until the day's out and tie labour done- : 
Then brin^ your gauges. If the day's 

work's scant. 
Why, call it scant ; affect no compro- 
mise : 
And, in that we have nobly stivcn at 

least, 
Deal with us nobly, women ihouj^h wc 

be. 



A unci:: A Lr.K^fr 



3<59 



And honor 115 with truth il" not with 
praise. 

My b:\lb.d3 prospered ; but tlie ballad's 

race 
Is rapid for a poet who bears weights 
Of thought and golden image. He can 

stand 
Like Atlas, in the sonnet, — and support 
His own heavens pregnant with dynastic 

stars ; 
But then he must stand still, nor take a 

step. 

In that descriptive poem called 'The 
Hills,' 

The prospects were too far and indis- 
tinct. 

'Tis true my critics said, ' A fine view, 
that ! ' 

The public scarcely cared to climb the 
book 

For even the finest ; and the public's 
right, 

A tree's mere firewood, imless human- 
ised ; 

Whicli well the Greeks knew when they 
stirred its bark 

With close-pressed bosoms of subsiding 
iiym]ihs. 

And made the forest-rivers garrulous 

With babble of gods. For lis, we are 
called to mark 

A still more intimate humanity 

In this interior nature. — or, ourselves. 

Must fall like dead leaves trodden un- 
derfoot 

l!y veritable artists. Earih, shut up 

I'.y Adam, like a fakir in a box 

Left loo long buried, remained stiff and 
dry, 

A meredninb corpse, till Christ the Lord 
came down, 

Unlocked the doors, forced open the 
blank eyes, 

And used His kingly chrism to straighten 
out 

The leathery tongue turned back into 
the throat : 

Since when, she lives, remembers, pal- 
pitates 

In every limb, aspires in every breath, 

Kuibraces infinite relations. Now 

W-' want no half-gods, Panomphjean 
Joves, 



I'auns, Naiads, Tritons, Oreads, and 

tlvj rest. 
To take possession of ,t senseless world 
To unnatural vampyre-uses. See the 

earth, 
The body of our body, the green eanli. 
Indubitably human like this flesh 
And these articulated veins through 

which 
Our heart drives blcod ! there's not a 

flower of spring 
That dies ere June, but vaunts itself al- 
lied 
By issue and symbol, by significance 
And correspondence, to that spirit-world 
C)utside the limits of our space and 

time. 
Whereto we are bound. Let poets give 

it voice 
With human meanings ; else they miss 

the thought. 
And henceforth step down lower, stand 

con lessed 
Instructed poorly for interpreters, 
'I'hrown out by an easy cowslip in the 

text. 

Even so my pastoral failed : it was a 

book 
Of surface-pictures — pretty, cold, and 

false 
With literal transcript, — the worse done, 

I think. 
For being not ill-done. Let me set my 

mark 
Against such doings, and do otherwise. 
This strikes me. — If the public whom 

we know. 
Could catch me at such admissions, I 

should pass 
For being right modest. Vet how proud 

we are. 
In dariiig 10 look down upon ourselves ! 

The critics say that epics have died out 

With Agamennion and the goat-nursed 
gods — 

I'll not believe it. I could never deem 
•As Payne Knight did, (the mythic moun- 
taineer 

Who travelled higlier than he was born 
to live. 

And showed sometimes the goitre in hij 
throat 



400 



AUKORA LF.JG/r. 



Discoursing of an image seen througli 

f"S-) , , , , 

That Homer s heroes measured twelve 

feet liigli. 
They were but men ; — his Helen's hair 

turned giay 
Like any plain Miss Smith's, who wears 

a front ; 
And Hector's infant whimpered at a 

plume. 
All actual heroes are essential men, 
And ail men possible heroes : every age, 
Heroic in proportions, double-faced, 
Looks backward and before, expects a 

morn 
And claims an epos. 

Ay, but every age 
Appears to souls who live in 't, (ask 

Carlyle) 
Most uiiheroic. Ours, for instance, 

ours : 
The thinkers scout it, and the poets 

abound 
Who scorn to touch it with a finger-tip: 
A pewter age, — mixed metal, silver- 
washed ; 
An age of scum, spooned off the richer 

past. 
An age of patches for old gaberdines, 
An ag? of mere transition, meaning 

nought 
Except that what succeeds must shame 

it quite 
If God please. That's wrong thinking, 

to my mind, 
And wrong thoughts n\ake poor poems. 

Every age. 
Through being beheld too close, is ill- 
discerned 
By those who have not lived past it. 

We'll suppose 
Mount Athos carved, as Alexander 

schemed, 
■J'o some colossal statue of a man : 
The peasants, gathering brushwood in 

his ear. 
Had guessed as little as the browsing 

goats 
Of form or feature of humanity 
Up there, — in fact, had travelled five 

miles off 
Or ere tlie giant image broke on them. 
Full human protlle, nose and chin dis- 

tiuct, 



Mouth, muttering rhythms of silence up 

the sky, 
And fed at evening with the blood of 

suns ; 
Grand torso, — hand that flung perpetual- 
ly , . . 
The largesse of a silver river down 
I'o all the country pastures. 'Tis even 

thus 
With times we live in, — evermore too 

great 
To be apprehended near. 

But poets should 
Exert a double vision ; should have eyes 
'I'o see near things as comprehensively 
As if afar ihey took their point of sight. 
And distant things as intimately deep 
As if they touched them. Let us sliiv* 

for this. 
I do distrust the poet who discerns 
No character or glorv in his times, 
And trundles back his soul five hundred 

years. 
Past moat and drawbridge, into a castle- 

conrt. 
To sing— oh not of lizard or of toad 
Alive i' the ditch there,— 'twere excusa- 
ble : 
But of some black chief, half knight, half 

sheep-lifter, 
Some beauteous dame, half chattel and 

half queen, 
As dead as must be, for the greater part, 
Ihe poems made on their chivalric 

bones. 
And that's no wonder : death inherits 

death. 

Nay, if there's room for poets in this 

world 
A little overgrown, (I think here is) 
Their sole work is to represent the age. 
Their age. not Cliarlemagne's,— this live, 

throbbing age, 
That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, 

aspires, 
And spends more passion, more lieroic 

heat, 
Betwixt tlie mirrors of its drawing- 
rooms. 
Than Roland with his knights at 

Roucesvalles. 
To flinch fiom modem varnish, coat or 

flounce. 
Cry out for togas and the picturesque. 



AURORA LEIGH. 401 


Is fatal, — foolish too. King Arthur's 


And all the close-curled imagery clipped 


self 


In manner of their fleece at shearnig- 


Was commonplace to Lady Gnenever ; 


time. 


And Camelot to minstrels seemed as 


Forget to prick the galleries to the heart 


flat, 


Precisely at the fourth act, — culminate 


As Fleet Street to our poets. 


Our five pyramidal acts with one act 


Never flinch. 


more, — 


But still, unscrupulously epic, catch 


We're lost so ! Shakspeare's ghost 


iJpon the burning lava of a song 


could scarcely plead 


The full-veined, heaving, double-breast- 


Against onr just damnation. Stand 


ed age : 


aside ; 


That, when the next shall come, the men 


We'll muse for comfort that, last cen- 


of that 


tury. 


May toucli the impress with reverent 


On this same tragic stage on which we 


hand, and say 


have failed, 


' Behold,— behold, the paps we all have 


A wigless Hamlet would have failed the 


sucked ! 


same. 


This bosom seems to beat still, or at 




least 


And whosoever writes good poetry, 


It sets ours beating. This is living art, 


Looks just to art. He does not write 


Which thus presents and thus records 


for you 


true life.' 


Or me, — for London or for Edinburgh ; 




He wiM not suffer ihe best critic known 


What form is best for poems ? Let me 


To step inio his sunshine of free thought 


think 


And self-absorbed cimcei^tion, and exact 


Of forms less, and the external. Trust 


An inch-long swerving of the holy lines. 


the spirit. 


If virtue done for popularity 


As sovran nature does, to make the 


Defiles like vice, can art for praise or 


form ; 


liire 


For otherwise we only i.nprison spirit 


Still keep its splendour, and remain pure 


And not embody. Inward evermore 


art? 


To outward, — so in life, and so in art. 


Eschew such serfdom. What the poet 


Which still is life. 


writes, 


Five acts to make a play. 


He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits, 


And why not fifteen? why not ten? or 


And that's success : if not, the poem's 


seven ? 


passed 


What matter for the number of the 


From liand to hand, and yet froni hand 


leaves, 


(0 hand, 


Supposing the tree lives and grows? ex- 


Until tlie unborn snatch it, crying out 


act 


In pity on their fathers' being so dull. 


The literal unities of time andplace. 


And that's sticcess too. 


When 'tis the essence of passion to ig- 


I will write no plays; 


nore 


Because the drama, less sublime in tliis. 


Both time and place ? Absurd. Keeji 


Makes lower appeals, defends more 


up the fire. 


menially, 


And leave the generous flames to shape 


Adopts the standard of the public taste 


themselves. 


To chalk its height on, wears a dog-chain 




round 


'Tis true the stage requires obsequious- 


Its regal neck, and learns to carry and 


ness 


fetch 


To this or that convention ; ' exit ' here 


The fashions of the day to please the 


And 'enter ' there ; the points for clap- 


day ; 


ping, fixed. 


Fawns close on pit and boxes, who clap 


Like Jacob's white-peeled rods before 


hands, 


the rams ; 


Commending chiefly its docility 



402 



AURORA LEIGir. 



And liuiiinur in stage-tricks ; or else in- 
deed 
Gets hissed at, howled at, stamped at 

like A dog, 
Or worse, we 11 say. For dogs, unjustly 

kicked, 
Yell, bite at need; but if your drama- 
tist 
\Being wronged by some five hundred 

nobodies 
Because tlieir grosser brains most natu- 
rally 
Misjudge the fineness of his subtle wit) 
Sliows (eeth an almond's breadih, pro- 
tests the length 
Of a modest ph'ase, — ' My gentle coun- 
trymen, 
' There's something in it haply of your 

fault,'— 
Whv. then, beside five hundred nobod- 
ies. 
He'll linve five ihousaiid and five thou- 
sand more 
Against him, — the whole public, — all the 

hoofs 
Of King Saul's father's asses, in full 

drove, 
And obviously deserve it. He ajipealed 
To the^e,~a'nd why say more if they 

condenni. 
Than if they praise him?— Weep, my 

yEscliyUis, 
But low and far, upon Sicilian shores ! 
Tor since 'twas Athens (so I read the 

myth) 
Who gave commission to that fatal 

weight 
The tiirloise, cold and hard, to drop on 

thee 
And crush thee, — belter cover thy bald 

head ; 
She'll hear the softest hum of Hyblau 

bee 
Before thy loudest protestation I Then 
I'he risk's still worse upon the modern 

stage ; 
I could not, for so little, accept success. 
Nor would I risk so much, in case and 

calui. 
For manifester gains; let those who 

prize. 
Pursue them: / stand off. 

And yet, forbid. 
That any irreverent fancy or conceit 



Should litter in the Drama's throne-room 

where 
The rulers of our art, in whose full veins 
Dynastic glories mingle, sit in stiengtli 
And do their kingly woik, — conceive, 

command, 
And, from the imagination's crucial heat, 
Catch up their men and and women all 

a-flanie 
For action, ail alive and forced to prove 
Their life by living out lieart, brain, and 

nerve. 
Until mankind makes witness, ' These 

be men 
As we are,' and vouchsafes the greeting 

due 
To Imogen and Juliet— sweetest kin 
On art's side. 

'Tis that, honouring to its worth 
The drama, I would fear to keep it down 
To the level of the Ibotlights. Dies ro 

more 
The sacrificial coat, for Bacchus slain. 
His filmed eyes fluttered by the whirling 

white 
Of choral vestures, — troubled in his 

blood. 
While tragic voices that clanged keen as 

swords. 
Leapt high together with the altar-flame 
And made the blue air wink. The waxen 

mask. 
Which set the grand still front of Ihemis' 

son 
Upon the puckered visage of a player; — 
The buskin, whicli lie rose upon and 

moved. 
As some tall ship first conscious of the 

wind 
Sweeps slowly past the piers ; — the 

mouth piece, where 
The mere man's voice with all its breaths 

and breaks 
Went sheathed in brass, and clashed on 

even heights 
Its phrased llumders ;-- these things aie 

no more. 
Which once were. And concluding, 

which Is clear. 
The glowing drama !ias outgrown such 

toys 
Of simulated stature, face, and speech. 
It also peradveiuure may outgrow 
The simulatiou of the painted scene. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



403 



Boards, actors, prompters, gasHsht, and 

costume ; 
And take for a worthier stage the soul it- 
self. 
Its sliiftiiig fancies and celestial lights, 
IVitli all its grand orchestral silences 
I'o keep the pauses of the rhythmic 
sounds. 

Alas, I still see something to be done, 
And what I do falls short of what I see 
Though 1 waste myself on doing. Long 

green days, 
Worn bare of grass and sunshine, — long 

calm nights. 
From which the silken sleeps were fretted 

out, 
Re witness for me, with no amateur's 
Irreverent Imste and busy idlene'is 
I set myself to art I What then ? what's 

done ? 
What's done, at last? 

Behold, at last, a book. 
If life-blood's necessary, — which it is, 
(By that blue vein aihrob on Mahomet's 

brow, 
Each prophet-poet's book must show 

man's blood I) 
If life-blood's fertilising, I wrung mine 
On every leaf of this. — unless the drops 
Slid heavily oti one side and left it dry. 
That chances often : many a fervid man 
Writes books as cold and flat as grave- 
yard stones 
From which the lichen's scraped, and if 

St. Preux 
Had written his own letters, as he might. 
We iiad never wept to think of the little 

mole 
'Neath Julie's drooping eyelid. Passion 

is 
But something suffered, after all. 

While art 
Sets action on the top of suffering : 
The artist's part is both to be and do. 
Transfixing with a special, centra! power 
The flat experience of the common man. 
And turning outward, with a sudden 

wrench. 
Half agony, half ecstasy, the thing 
He feels the inmost : never felt the less 
Because he sings U. Does a torch less 

burn 
For burning next reflectors of blue steel, 



That, he sholi'd be tn; coide.- for his 

place 
'Twixt two incessant fires, — his personal 

life's. 
And that intense refraction which burns 

back 
Perpetually against him from the round 
Of crystal conscience he was born into 
If artist-born? O sorrowful great gi.t 
Conferred on poets, of i twofold lite. 
When one lite has been found enough 

for pain I 
We staggering 'neath our burden as mere 

men, 
Being called to stand up straigl.c as 

demi-gods. 
Support the intolerable strain and stress 
Of the universal, and send clearly up 
With voices broken by the human .-iob. 
Our poems to find rhymes among tne 

stars 1 
But soft ! — a ' poet' is a word soon said ; 
A book's a thing soon written. Nay, 

indeed, 
'I'he more the poet shall be questionable, 
The more unquestionably comes his 

book. 
And this of mine — well, granting to my- 
self 
Some passion in it, furrowing ni> the 

flats, 
Mere passion will not prove a volume 

worth 
Its gall and rags even. Bubbles round 

a keel 
Mean nought, excepting that the vessel 

moves. 
There's more than passion goes to make 

a man 
Or book, which is a man too. 

T am sad, 
I wonder if Pygmalion had these 

doubts, 
And, feeling the hard marble first re- 
lent, 
Grow supple to the straining of his arms, 
And tingle through its cold to his burn- 
ing lip. 
Supposed his senses mocked, and that 

' the toil 
Of stretching past the known and seen 

to reach 
'J'he archetypal Beantv nut of si^ht, 
Had made his heart beat last enuuyh for 

two, 



404 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And with his own life dazed and blinded 

him I 
Not so: Pygmalion loved, — and whoso 

loves 
Believes the impossible. 

And I am sad : 
I cannot thoroushly love a work of 

mine, 
Since none seems worthy of my thought 

and hope 
More highly mated. He has shot them 

down. 
My Piicebus Apollo, soul within iny soul. 
Who judges by the attempted, what's at- 
tained, 
And with the silver arrow from his 

height 
Has struck down all my works before 

my face 
While i said nothing. Is there aught 

to say ? 
I call the artist but a greatened man : 
He may be childless also, like a man. 

1 laboured on alone. The wind and 

dust 
And sun of the world beat blistering in 

my tV.ce ; 
And hope, now for me, now against me, 

dragged 
My spirits onward, — as some fallen 

balloon, 
Which, whether caught by blossoming 

tree or bare. 
Is toin alike. I sometimes touched my 

aim, 
Or seeined, — and generous souls cried 

out, ' Be strong. 
Take courage ; now you're on our level, 

—now ! 
The next step saves you I ' I was flushed 

with praise, 
But, pausing just a moment to draw 

breath, 
I could not choose but murmur to my- 
self 
' Is this all ? all that's done ? and all 

that's gained ? 
If this then be success, 'tis dismaller 
Than any failure.' 

() my God, my God, 
O Supreme Artist, who as sole return 
For all the cosmic wonder of Thy work, 
Demandest of us just a word . , a name, 



' My Father ! — thou hast knowledge, 
only thou.' 

How dreary 'tis for women to sit still 

On winter nights by solitary fires. 

And hear the nations praismg them far 
off. 

Too far I ay, praising our quick sense of 
love. 

Our very heart of passionate woman- 
hood. 

Which could rot beat so in the verse 
without 

Being present also in the Unkissed lips, 

And eyes undried because there's none 
to ask 

The reason they grow moist. 

To sit alone. 
And think for comfort how, that very 

night, 
Affianced lovers, leaning face to face 
With sweet half-listenings for each other's 

breath 
Are reading liaply from a page of ours, 
To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeki 

had touched. 
When such a stanza, level to their mood, 
Seems floating their own thoughts out — 

' So I feel 
For thee,' — 'And I, for thee; this poet 

knows 
What everlasting love is I '- how, that 

night, 
A father, issuing from the misty roads 
Upon the luminous round of lamp and 

hearth 
And happy children, Iiaving caught up 

first 
The youngest there until it shrink and 

shriek 
To feel the cold chin prick its dimples 

through 
With winter from the hills, may throw i' 

the lap 
Of the eldest, (who has learnt to drop 

her lids 
To hide some sweetness newer than last 

year's) 
Our book and cry, . . ' Ah you, yon care 

for rhymes ; 
So here be rhymes to jiore on under 

trees. 
When April comes to let you ! I've been 

told 
They are not idle as so many are. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



405 



But set hearts beating pure as well as 

fast : 
'Tis yiiiirs, the book; I'll write your 

name in it, 
That so yoLi may not lose, however lost 
In poet's lore and charming reverie, 
The thought of how your father thought 

of you 
In riding from the town.' 

To have our books 

Appraised by love, associated with love, 

While ive sit loveless I is it hard, you 
think? 

At least 'tis mournful. Fame, indeed, 
'twas said, 

Means simply love. It was a man said 
that. 

And then, there's love and love ; the 
love of all 

(To risk in turn a woman's paradox.) 

Is but a small thing to the love of one. 

You bid a hungry cliild be satisfied 

With a heritage of many corn-fields : 
nay, 

He says he's hungry, — he would rather 
have 

That little bariey-caka you keep from 
him 

While reckoning up his harvests. So 
witli us ; 

(Here, Romney, too, we fail to general- 
ise !) 

We're hungry. 

Hungry ! but it's pitiful 

To wail like unweaned babes and suck 
our thumbs 

Because we're hungry. Who, in all this 
world, 

(Wherein we are haply set to prav and 
fast, 

And learn what good is by its opposite) 

Has never hungered ? Woe to hira wlio 
has found 

The meal enough: if Ugolino's full, 

His teeth have crunched some foul un- 
natural thing: 

For here satiety proves penury 

More utterly irremediable. And since 

We needs must hunger, — better, for 
man's love 

Than God's truth ! better, for compan- 
ions sweet, 

1 han great co:ivictio:is I let us bear our 
weights, 



Preferring dreary hearths to desert 

souls. 
Well, well, they say we're envious, we 

who rhyme ; 
But 1, because ( am a woman perhaps, 
And so rhyme ill. am ill at envying. 
I never envied Graham his breadth of 

style, 
Which gives you, with a random Sinutcl: 

or two, 
(Near-siglited critics analyse to smutch) 
Such delicate perspectives of full life ; 
Nor Belniore, for the unity of aim 
To which he cuts his cedarn poems, fine 
As sketchers do their pencils; nor Mark 

Gage, 
For that caressing colour and trancing 

tone 
Whereby you're swept away and melted 

in 
The sensual element, which with a back 

wave 
Restores you to the level of pure souls 
And leaves you with Plotinus. None 

of these. 
For native gifts or popular applause, 
I've envied; but for this, — that when by 

chance 
Says some one. — ' There goes Belmore, 

a great man I 
He leaves clean work behind him, and 

requires 
No sweeper up of the chips,' . . a girl 

I know, 
Who answers nothing, save with her 

brown eyes. 
Smiles unaware as if a guardian saint 
Smiled in her: — for this, too,— that 

Gage comes home 
And lays his last book's prodigal review 
Upon his mother's knees, where, years 

ago. 
He laid his childish spelling-book and 

lear.ied 
To chirp and peck the letters from her 

mouth. 
As young birds must. ' Well done,' she 

murmured then. 
She will not say it now more wonder- 

ingly ; 
And yet the last ' Well done,' will touch 

him more. 
As catching up to-day and yesterday 
In a perfect cord of love ; and so, Mark 

Gage, 



4o6 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I envy you your mother ! — and you, Oa- 

ham, 
Because you liave a wife wlio loves ycu 

so, 
She half forgets, at moments, to be 

))roud 
Of being Graham's wife, until a friend 

observes, 
' The boy here, has his fcithcr's massive 

brow, 
Done small in wax • . if we push back 

the curls." 

Who loves ^ne f Dearest father, — moth- 
er sweet, — 
I speak the names out sometimes by 

myself, 
And make the silence shiver : they 

sound strange. 
As Hindostanee to an Ind-born man 
Accustomed many years to English 

speech ; 
Or lovely poet-words grown obsolete, 
Which will not leave off singing. Up 

in heaven 
1 have my father, — with my mother's 

face 
Beside him in a blotch of heavenly 

lighL; . 

No more for earth's familiar household 

use, 
No more ! The best verse written by 

this hand. 
Can never reach them where they sit, to 

seem 
Well-done to thevt. Death quite un- 

fellows us. 
Sets dreadful odds betwixt the live and 

dead. 
And makes us part as those at Babel did 
Through sudden ignorance ot a common 

tongue. 
A living Caesar would not dare to play 
At bowls with such as my dead father 



And vet this may be less so than ap- 

jiears, 
This change and separation. Sparrows 

five 
For just two farthings, ayd fiod cares 

for each. 
If God is not too great for little cares, 
Isanv creature, because gone to God? 



I've seen some men, veracious, nowi.se 
mad. 

Who have thought or dreamed, de- 
clared and testified, 

They heard the Dead a licking like a 
clock 

Which strikes the hours of the eterni- 
ties, 

Beside them, with theiriiatural ears,ni.d 
knu-x.. 

That hinnan spirits feel the luiman way. 

And hate the luireasoning awe which 
waves them off 

From possible communion. It ir.ay be. 

At least, earth separates r.s v.ell as 

heaven. 
For instance, I have not seen Ronniey 

Leigh 
Full eighteen monlhs . . adii six, you 

get two yeais. 
'J'hey say he's \ery busy v.iih good 

works, — 
Has jiarted Leigh Hall into almshouses. 
He made an almshouse of his heart one 

day, 
Which ever since is loose tipon the latch 
For those who pull the string.- 1 never 

did. 

It always makes me sad to go abroad ; 
And now I'm sadder that I went to- 
night 
Among the lights and talkers nt Lord 

Howe's. 
His wife is gracious, with her glossy 

braids. 
And even voice, and gorgeous eyeballs, 

calm 
As her other jewels. If she's somewhat 

cold, 
Who wonders, when her blood lias stood 

so long 
In the ducal reservoir she calls her line 
By no means arrogantly ? she's i ct 

proud : 
Not prouder than the swan ij cf I'.ie 

lake 
He lias always swum in; — "ilshcrc'e- 

ment. 
And so she takes it with a natural grace, 
Ignoring tadpoles. She just knows j cr- 

haps 
'I'herc are who travel without outriders. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



407 



Wliicli isn't her fault. Ah, to watch 

her face, 
When good Lord Howe expounds his 

theories 
Of social justice and equality — 
'Tis curious, what a tender, tolerant 

bend 
Her neck takes : for she loves him, 

likes his talk, 
' Such clever talk— that dear, odd Alger- 
non 1 ' 
She listens on, exactly a<! if he talked 
Some Scandinavian myth of I,emures, 
Too pretty to dispute, and too absurd. 

She's gracious to me as her husband's 

friend, 
And would be gracious, were I not a 

Leigh, 
Being used to smile just so, without her 

eyes, 
On Jo3e|ih Strangways, the Leeds mes.- 

merist, 
And Delia Dobbs, the lecturer from ' the 

States' 
Upon the ' Woman's question.' Then, 

for him, 
I like him . . he's my friend. And all 

the rooms 
Were full of crinkling silks that swept 

about 
The fine dust of most subtle courtesies. 
What then?- why then, we come home 

to be sad. 
How lovely One I love not looked to- 
night ! 
She's very pretty, Lady Waldemar. 
Her maid must use both hands to twist 

that coll 
Of tresses, then be careful lest the rich 
Bronze rounds should slip : — she missed, 

though, a gray hair, 
A single one, — I saw it ; otherwise 
The woman looked immortal. How 

they told, 
Those alabaster shoulders and bare 

breasts. 
On which the pearls, drowned out of 

sight in milk, 
Were lo-il, exceuting for the ruby-clasp ! 
They split the amaranth velvet-boddice 

down 
To the waist or nearly, with the auda- 
cious jiress 



Of ful!-breathed beauty. If the heart 
within 

Were half as white ! — but, if it were, 
perhaps 

The breasts were closer covered, and the 
sight 

Less aspectable, by half, too. 

] heard 

The young man with the German stu- 
dent's look — 

A sharp face, like a knife in a cleft stick, 

Which shot up straight against the part- 
ing line 

So equally dividing the long hair. — 

Say softly to his neighbor, (thirty-five 

And medieval) ' Look that way, Sir 
Blaise. 

She's Ladv Waldemar — to the left, — in 
red— ' 

Whom Romney Leigh, our ablest man 
just now. 

Is soon about to marry.' 

Then replied 

Sir Blaise Delorme, with quiet, priesllike 
voice, 

Too used to syllable damnations round 

To make a natural emphasis worth 
while : 

' Is Leigh your ablest man? the same, I 
think, 

Once jilted by a recreant pretty maid 

Adopted from the people? Now, in 
change. 

He seems to have plucked a flower from 
the other side 

Of the social hedge.' 

' A flower, a flower,' exclaimed 

My German student, — his own eyes full- 
blown 

Bent on her. He was twenty, certainly. 

Sir Blaise resumed with gentle arro- 
gance. 

As if he had dropped his alms into a hat 

And gained the right to counsel, — My 
young friend, 

I doubt your ablest man's ability 

To get the least good or help meet for 
him, 

For pagan phalanstery or Christian 
home. 

From such a flowery creature.' 

' Beautit'.il ! ' 

My student murmured, rapt, — ' Mark 
how she stirs I 



4oS 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Just waves her head, as if a flower in- 
deed, 

Touched far off by the vain breath of 
our talk.' 

At which that bilious Grimwald, (he 

who writes 
For the Renovator) who had seemed 

absorbed 
Upon the table-book of autographs, 
(I dare say mentally he crunched the 

bones 
Of all those writers, wishing them alive 
To feel his tooth in earnest) turned short 

round 
With low carnivorous laugh, — ' a flower, 

of course 1 
She neither sews nor spins, — and takes 

no thought 
Of her garments . . falling off.' 

The student flinclied, 
Sir Blaise, the same ; then both, draw- 
ing back their clmirs 
As if they spied black-beetles on the 

floor, 
Pursued their talk, without a word being 

thrown 
To the critic. 

Good Sir Blaise's brow is high 
And noticeably narrow: a strong wind, 
You fancy, might unroof him suddenly, 
And blow that great top attic off his 

head 
So piled with feudalrelics. You adniit;e 
His nose in profile, though you miss his 

cliiii; 
But, though you miss his chin, you sel- 
dom miss 
His ebon cross worn innermostly, 

(carved 
For penance by a saintly Styrian monk 
Whose flesh was too much with him.) 

slip|iing through 
Some unaware unbuttoned casualty 
Of the under-waistcoat. With an absent 

air 
Sir Blaise sate fingering it and speaking 
1 low. 

While I, upon the sofa, heard it all. 

' My dear young friend, if we could bear 

our eves 
l,ike blessedest .St. T.ncy. nn a ]ilatc, 
Thev would not trick us into choosing 

wives, 



As doublets, by the colour. Oilierwi.se 
Our fathers chose, — and therefore, when 

they had hung 
Their liousehold keys about a lady's 

waist. 
The sense of duty gave lier dignity : 
f^he kept her bosom holy to her babes ; 
And, if a moralist reproved her dress, 
'Twas, ' Too much starch I '—and not, 

' Too little lawn 1 ' ' 

' Now, pshaw ! ' returned the other in a 

heat, 
A little fretted by being called ' young 

friend,' 
Or so I took it,— ' for St Lucy's sake, 
If she's the saint to swear by, let tis 

leave 
Our fathers, •— plagued enough aboi:t 

our sons ! ' 
(He stroked his beardless chin) 'yes, 

plagued, sir, ]ilagued : 
The t'niure generations lie on us 
As heavy as the nightmare of a seer". 
Our meat and drink grow painful proph- 
ecy : 
I ask you, — have we leisme. if we liked, 
To liollow out our wearv hands to keep 
Your intermittent rushlicht of he past 
From flraughts in lobbies ? Prejudice 

of sex 
And marriage-law . . the socket drops 

them through 
While we two speak, — however may 

protest 
Some over-delicate nostrils, like your 

own, 
'Gainst odours thence arising.' 

' You are young,' 
Sir Blaise objected. 

' If I am,' he said 
With fire, — ' though somewhat less so 

than I seem. 
The young run on before, and see the 

thing 
That's coming. Reverence for the young, 

I cry. 
In that new church for whicli tlic world's 

near ripe. 
You'll have the younger in the Klder's 

chair. 
Presiding with liis ivory front of hope 
O'er fovelieads clawed by cruel carrion- 
birds 
Of liic's experience.' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



409 



' Pray your blessing, sir,' 
Sir Blaise replied good-luimouredly, — ' I 

plucked 
A silver liair this morning from my beard, 
Which left me your inferior. Would I 

were 
Eighteen and worthy to admonish you 1 
]f young men of your order rini before 
To see such sights as sexual prejudice 
Aiid n)arriage-law dissolved, — in plainer 

wor ds, 
A general concubinage expressed 
In a universal pruriency, — the thing 
Is scarce worth running fast for, and 

you'd gain 
By loitering with your elders.' 

' Ah,' he said, 
' Who, getting to the top of Pisgah-hill, 
Can talk with one at bottom of the view, 
To make it comprehensible ? Why, 

Leigh 
Himself^ although our ablest man, I 

said. 
Is scarce advanced to see as far as this. 
Which some are : he takes up imper- 
fectly 
The social question — by one handle — 

leaves 
Tlie rest to trail. A Christian socialist. 
Is Romney Leigh, you understand.' 

'Not I. 
1 disbelieve in Christian-pagans, much 
As you in women-fishes. If w.e mix 
Two colours, we lose both, and make a 

third 
Distinct from either. Mark you ! to 

mistake 
A colour is the sign of a sick brain. 
And mine, I thank the saints, is clear 

and cool : 
A neutral tint is here impossible. 
The church, — and by the church, I mean 

of course 
Tlie catholic, apostolic, tnother-church, — 
Draws lines as plain and straight as her 

own wall ; 
Inside of which, are Christians, ob- 
viously, 
And outside . . dogs.' 

' We thank you. Well I know 
The ancient mother-church would fain 

siill bite. 
For nli her toothless gums, — as Leigh 

h,i-iself 



Would fain be a Christian still, foi all 

his wit : 
Pass that : you two may settle it, for me 
You're slow in England. In a month I 

learnt 
At Gottingen enough philosophy 
To stock your English schools for fifty 

years ; 
Pass that, too. Here alone, I stop you 

short, 
— Supposing a true man like Leigh could 

stand 
Unequal in the stature of his life 
To the heiglit of his opinions. Choose 

a wife 
Because of a smooth skin? — not he, not 

hel 
He'd rail at Venus' self for creaking 

shoes. 
Unless slie walked his way of righteous- 
ness ; 
And if he takes a Veiuis Meretrix, 
(No imoutalion on the ladv there) 
Be sure that, by some sleight of Cliris- 

liaM art. 
He ha» metamorphosed and converted 

her 
To a B!essed Virgin.' 

' Soft ! ' Sir Blaise drew breatli 
As if it ^urt him, — ' Soft ! no bl.^sphemy, 
I pray y )u ! ' 

' IT; first Christians did the thing: 
Why not the last? ' asked he of Gottin- 
gen, 
With just that shade of sneering on the 

lip, 
Coinpens?tss for the lagging of the 

beard.-- 
' And so thf- case is. If that fairest faif 
Is talked of as the future wife of Leigh, 
She's talked n^ too. at least as certainly 
As Leigh's disciple. You may find hei 

name 
On all his missions and commissions 

schools. 
Asylums, hospitals, — he had her down. 
With other ladies whom her starry lead 
Persuaded from their spheres, to liis 

country-place 
In Shropshire, to the famed phalanstery 
At Leigh Hall, christianised from Four- 
ier's own, 
(In which he lias planted out his sapling 

stocks 
Of knowledge into social nurseries) 



4IC 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And there, *hey say, she ha3 tarried half 
a week. 

And milked the cows, and churned, and 
pressed llie curd, 

And said ' n;y sister ' to the lowest drab 

Ot' all the assembled castaways ; such 
gn-ls I 

Ay, sided with them at the washing- 
tub— 

Conceive, Sir Blaise, those naked perfect 
arms. 

Round glittering arms, plunged elbow- 
deep in suds. 

Like wild swans hid in lilies all ashake.' 

Lord Howe came up. ' What, talking 

poetry 
So near the image of the unfavoring 

Muse ? 
That's you. Miss Leigh: I've watched 

you half an hour, 
Precisely as 1 watched the statue called 
A Pallas in the Vatican ;— you mind 
'I'lie face. Sir Blaise.'— intensely calm and 

sad. 
As wisdom cut it off from fellowship, — 
But that spoke louder. Not a word 

from you ! 
And tliese two gentlemen were bold, I 

marred. 
And unabashed by even your silence.' 

' Ah," 
Said L ' mv dear Lord Howe, yon shall 

not speak 
To a printing woman who has lost Iter 

place, 
(The sweet safe corner of the household 

fire 
Behind the heads of children) compli- 
ments 
As if she were a woman. We who have 

dipt 
Tlie curls before our eyes, may see at 

least 
As plain as men do : speak out, man to 

man ; 
No compliments, beseech you ' 

' Friend to friend. 
Let that be. We are sad to-night, I 

saw, 
(— Goi.d niglit. Sir Blaise I Ah, Smith 

— he has slipped away) 
I saw vou across the room, and stayed. 

Miss Leigh, 
To keep a crowd of lion-hunters off, 



With faces toward your jungle. There 

were three ; 
A spacious lady, five feet ten and fat. 
Who has the devil in her (and there'* 

room) 
For walking to and fro upon the earth, 
From Chippewa to China; she requires 
Vour autograph upon a tinted leaf 
'Twixt Queen Pomare's and Emperor 

Soulougue's : 
Pray give it ; she has energies, though 

fat: 
For me, I'd rather see a rick on fire 
'J'han such a woman angry. '1 hen a 

youth 
Fresh from the backwoods, green as the 

underbonglis. 
Asks modestly, Miss Leigh, to kiss your 

shoe. 
And adds, he has an epic in twelve 

parts. 
Which when you've read, you'll do it for 

his boot, — 
All which I saved you, and absorb next 

week 
Both manuscript and man,— because a 

lord 
Is still more potent than a poetess 
With any extreme republican. Ah, ah, 
You smile at last, then ' 

' Thank you.' 

' Leave the smile. 
I'll lose the thanks for't, — ay, and throw 

you in 
My transatlantic girl, with golden eyes. 
That draw you to her splendid white- 
ness as 
The jiistil of a water-lily draws. 
Adust with gold. Those girls across the 

sea 
Are tyrannou.sly pretty, — and I swore 
(Sl'e seemed to me an innocent, frank 

girl) 
To bring her to j-ou for a woman's kiss. 
Not now, but on some other day or 

week : 
— We'll call it perjury; I give lier up.' 

' No, bring her.' 

' Now,' said he. 'you m'ake it hard 
To touch such goodness with a ginny 

palm. 
I thought to tease you well, and fret you 

cross. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And steel myself, when riglitly vexed 

with ynu. 
Foi- telling yon a thing to tease yon more.' 

' Of Romney ? ' 

' No, no; nothinii!; worse,' lie cried, 
' Of Ronuiey Leigh than what is buzzed 

about, — 
Tint he is taken in an eye-trap too. 
Like many lialf as wise. The tiling I 

mean 
Refers to you, not him-' 

' Refers to me.' 
He echoed,—' Me ! Yon sound it like 

a stone 
Dropped down a dry well very listlessly 
Rv one who never thinks about the toad 
Alive at the bottom. Presently perhajjs 
You'll sound your ' me ' more proudly — 

till I shrink.' 

' Lord Howe's the toad, then, in this 

question ? ' 

■ Brief. 
We'll take it graver. Give me sota- 

room, 
And quiet hearing. You know Eglin- 

ton, 
John Eglinton, of Eglinton in Kent?' 

' Is he the toad ? — he's rather like the 

snail : 
Known chiefly for the house upon his 

back : 
Divide the man and house —you kill the 

man : 
That's Eglinton of Eglinton, Lord 

Howe.' 

He answered grave. ' A reputable man, 
An excellent landlord of the oldeu 

stamp. 
If soaewhat slack in new philanthro- 
pies : 
Who keeps his birthdays with a tenants' 

dance. 
Is hard nptni tliem when they miss the 

clunch 
Or hold their children back from cate- 

chi.sin. 
Rut not ungentle when the aged poor 
Pick sticks at hedge-sides; nay, I've 

heard him say, 
' The old dame has a twinge because 

she stoops : 



' That's punishment enough for felony.' ' 

'O tenderhearted landlord i May I 

tak' 
My long lease with him, when th<^ time 

arrives 
For gathering winter faggots ! ' 

' He likes 3rt« 
Buvs books and pictures . . of a cer'.ait* 

■ kind : 
Neglects no patent duty ; a good son '. . • 

■ To a most obedient mother. Born to 
wear 

His father's shoes, she wears her hus- 
band's too : 

Indeed I've heard it's touching. Dear 
Lord Howe, 

You shall not praise tne so against your 
heart. 

When I'm at worst for praise and fag- 
gots.' 
. ' Be 

Less bitter with me, for . . in short.' he 
said, 

' I have a letter, which he urged me so 

To bring yon . . I could scarcely choose 
but yield : 

Insisting that a new love passing through 

The hand of an old friendship, caught 
from it 

Some reconciling odour, ' 

' Love, you say ? 

My lord, 1 cannot love. I only find 

The rhyme tor love. — and that's not love, 
my Icrd. 

Take back yonr letter.' 

' Pause: you'll read it first?' 

' T will not read it : it is stereotyped : 
The same he wrote to, — anybody's 

name. 
Anne Blythe the actress, when she died 

so tiue, 
A duchess fainted in a private box : 
Pauline the dancer, after the great />as 
In which her little feet winked over- 
head 
Like other fireflies. and amazed the pit: 
Or Raldiiiatci. when her F in alt 
Had tcniched the silver tops of heaven 

itself 
With such a pungent spirit-dart, the 
Queen 



41 = 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Lnid soflly, each to each, her white- 
gloved palms, 
And siglied for joy : or else (I thank your 

friend) 
Aurora Leigh, — when some indifferent 

rhymes. 
Like those the boys sang round the holy 

ox 
On Memphis-highway, chance perhaps 

to set 
Our Apis-public lowing. Oh, he wants, ' 
Instead of any worthy wife at home, 
A star upon his stage of Eglinton ! 
Advise him that he is not overshrewd 
In being so little modest: a dropped 

star 
Makes bitter waters, says a book I've 

read, -- 
And there's his unread letter.' 

' My dear friend,' 
Lord Howe began . . 

In haste I tore the phrase. 
' You mean your friend of Eglinton, or 

me ?' 

' I mean you, you,' he answered with 

some fire 
' A happy life means prudent compro- 
mise : 
The t.ire runs through the farmer's gar- 
nered sheaves : 
But though the gleaner's apron holds 

pure wheat. 
We count her poorer. Tare with wheat, 

we cry, 
And good with drawbacks. You, you 

love your art. 
And, certain of vocation, set your soul 
On utterance. Only, . . in this world 

we have made, 
(Thev say God made it first, but if He 

did 
'Twas so long since, . . and, since, we 

have spoiled it so. 
He scarce would know it, if He looked 

this way, 
From hells we preach of, with the flames 

blown out,) 
In this bad, twisted, topsy-turvy world. 
Where all the heaviest wrongs get up- 
permost, — 
In this uneven, unfostering England 

here. 
Where ledjer-strokes and sword-strokes 
count indeed, 



Rut soul-strokes merelv tell upon the 
flesh ' 

They strike from, — it is hard to stand 
for art. 

Unless some golden tripod from the sea 

Ke fished up, by Apollo's divine chance, 

To throne such feet as yours, jny proph- 
etess. 

At Delphi, Think, — the god comes 
down as fierce 

As twenty bloodhounds ! shakes you, 
strangles you. 

Until the oracular shriek shall ooze in 
froth !_ 

At best 'tis not all ease,— at worst too 
hard : 

A place to stand on is a 'vantage gained. 

And here's your tripod. To be plain, 
dear friend. 

You're poor, except in what you richly 
give ; 

You labour for your own bread painful- 
ly. 

Or ere you pour our wine. For art's 
sake, pause.' 

I answered slow, — as some wayfaring 

man. 
Who feels himself at night too far from 

home. 
Makes steadfast face against the bitter 

wind. 
' Is art so less a thing tlian virtue is, 
That artists first must cater for their 

ease 
Or ever they make issue jiast them- 
selves 
To generous use? alas, and is it so. 
That we, who would be somewhat clean, 

must sweep 
Our ways as well as walk them, and no 

friend 
Confirm us nobly, — ' Leave results to 

God. 
But you, be clean?' What! 'prudent 

compromise 
Makes accei^table life.' you say. instead. 
You. von. Lord Howe? — in things in- 
different, well, 
For instance, compromise the wheaten 

bread 
For rye, the meat for lentils, silk for 

serge. 
And sleep on down, if needs, for sleep 

on straw ; 



/tU.':ORA LK/d/: 



413 



But ihere, end compromise. I will not 

bale 
One ariist-dreani on straw or down, my 

lord, 
Nor pinch my liberal soul, though I be 

poor, 
Nor cease to love high, though I live 

thus low.' 

So speaking, with less anger in my voice 
Than sorrow, I rose quickly to depart : 
While he, tlirown back upon the noble 

sl>ame 
Of such high-stumbling natures, mur- 
mured words, 
The right words after wrong ones. Ah, 

the man 
Is worthy, but so given to entertain 
Impossible jilans of superhuman life, — 
He sets his virtues on so raised a shelf. 
To keep them at the grand millennial 

height. 
He has to mount a stool to get at them ; 
And meantime, lives on quite the com- 
mon way. 
With everybody's morals. 

As we passed. 
Lord Howe insisting that his friendly 

arm 
Should oar me across the sparkling 

brawling stream 
Which swept from room to room, we fell 

at once 
On Lady Waldemar. ' Miss Leigh,' she 

said. 
And gave me such a smile, so cold and 

bright, _ 
As if she tried it in a 'tiring glass 
And liked it ; ' all to-night I've strained 

at you. 
As babes at baubles held up out of reacli 
By spiteful nurses, (' Never snatch,' 

they say,) 
And there you sate, most perfectly shut 

in 
By good Sir Blaise and clever Mister 

Smith, 
And then our dear Lord Howe ! at last 

indeed 
I almost snatched. I have a world to 

speak 
About your cousin'splace in Shropshire, 

where 
I've been to see his work . . our work, — 

you heard 



I went? . . and of a letter yesterday. 
In which, if 1 should read a page ot 

two. 
You miglit feel interest, though you're 

locked of course 
In literary toil. — You'll like to hear 
Your last book lies at the phalanstery. 
As judged innocuous for the elder girls 
And younger women who still care for 

books. 
We all must read, you see. before we 

live : 
But slowly the ineffable light comes up. 
And, as it deepens, drowns the written 

word. — 
So said your cousin, while we stood and 

felt 
A sunset from his favourite beech-tree 

seat : 
He might have been a poet if he would. 
But then he saw the higher thing at once 
And climbed to it. I think he looks well 

now, 
Has quite got over that unfortunate . . 
Ah, ah . . I know it moved you. I'en- 

der-heart ! 
You took a liking to the wretched girl. 
Perhaps you thought the marriage suita- 
ble. 
Who knows? a poet hankers for ro- 
mance, 
And so on. As for Romney Leigh, 'tis 

sine 
He never loved her, — never. By the 

way. 
You liave not heard oi ker? . . quite 

out of sight. 
And out of saving ? lost in every sense ? ' 

She might have gone on talking lialf-an 

hour. 
And I stood still, and cold, and pale, I 

tliink. 
As a garden-statue a child pelts with 

snow 
For pretty pastime. Every now and 

tlien 
I put in ' ves' or ' no,' I scarce knew 

whv; 
The blind man walks wherever the dog 

pulls. 
And so I answered. Til! Lord Howe 

broke in : 
' What penance takes the wretch who in- 
terrupts 



Vi 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The ;.';11< of charming women? 1, at 

last. 
Must brave it. Pardon, Lady Walde- 

mar ! 
The lady on jny arm is tired, unwell, 
And loyally I've promised she shall say 
Nor harder word this evening, than .. 

goodnight ; 
The rest lier tace speaks for her.' — Then 

we went 

And I breathe large at home. I drop 

my cloak, 
Unclasji my girdle, loose the band that 

ties 
My hair . . now could I but unloose my 

soul I 
We are seoulchered alive i;i this c-ose 

•.\.->rld; 
And want more room. 

The chaiming woman there— 
This reckoning up and writingdown her 

talk 
Affects me singularly. How she talked 
I'o pain me ! woman's spite ! — You wear 

steel-mail ; 
A woman takes a housewife from her 

breast. 
And plucks the delicatest needle out 
As 'twere a rose, and pricks you care- 
fully 
'Nealh nails, 'neath eyelids, in your nos- 
trils, -say, 
A beast would roar so tortured,— but a 

man, 
A human creature, must not, shall not 

flinch, 
No, i!0t for shame. 

What vexes after all. 
Is just that such as she, with such as I, 
Knows how to vex. Sweet heaven, she 

takes me up 
As if she had fingered me and dog-eared 

me 
And spelled me bv the fncside half a 

lite ! 
She knows my turns, my feeble points. 

— What then.' 
The knowledge of a thing implies the 

thing ; 
Of course, she found that in me, she saw 

that. 
Her pencil underscored ihis for a fault. 
And I, still ignorant. Shut the book up 

— close ! 



And crush that beetle in the leave'. 

() heart. 
At last we shall grow hard too, like il.e 

rest. 
And call it self defence because we are 

soft. 

And after all, now, . . why should I be 

pained 
That Komney Leigh, my cousin, should 

espouse 
This Lady Wa'.demar? And, say, she 

held 
Her newly-blossomed gladness in my 

face, . . 
'Twas natural surely, if not generous. 
Considering how. when winter held her 

fast, 
I helped the frost with mine, and pained 

her more 
Than she pains me. Pains me ! — but 

wherefore pained? 
'Tis clear my cousin Romi.ey wants a 

wife,— 
So. good I— -The man's need of the 

woman, here. 
Is greater than the woman's of the man. 
And easier served ; for where the man 

discerns 
A sex, (ah, ah, the man can generalise. 
Said l-.e) we see but one, ideally 
And really : where we yearn lo lose our- 
selves 
And melt like white pearls in another's 

wine. 
He seeks to double himself by what he 

loves. 
And make his drink more costly by our 

pearls. 
At board, at bed, at work ar.d holiday, 
It is not good for man to be alone. 
And that's his way of thinking, first and 

last : 
And thus my cousin Romncy wants a 

wife. 

But then my cousin sets liis dignity 
On personal virtue. If he understands 
13y love, like others, self-aggrandise- 
ment, 
It is that he may verily be great 
By doing lightly and kindly. Once- he 

thought. 
For charitable ends set duly forth 



AURORA LEIGH. 



In heaven's white judgment-book, to 

marry . . ah, 
We'll call her name Aurora Leigh, al- 

thoLigli 
She's changed since then .' — and once, 

for social ends, 
Poor Marian Erie, my sister Marian 

Erie, 
My woodland sister, sweet Maid Marian, 
Whose memory moans on iu me like the 

wind 
Tliroiigh ill -shut casements, making me 

more sad 
Than ever I tind reasons for. Alas, 
Poor pretty plaintive face, embodied 

ghost. 
He finds it easy then, to clap thee off 
From pulling at his sleeve and book and 

pen, — ■ 
He locks tliee out at night into the cold, 
AA'ay from butting with thy horny eyes 
Against his crystal dreams, — that now 

lie's strong 
To love anew? that Lady Waldemar 
Succeeds my Marian ? 

After all, why not ? 
He loved not Marian, more than once 

he loved 
Aurora. If he loves at last that Third, 
Albeit she prove as slippery as spilt oil 
Oa lu.irble floors I will not augur him 
III luck for that. Good love, howe'er 

ill-placed, 
Is better for a man's soul in the end, 
Than if he loved ill what deserves love 

well. 
A pagan, kissing for a step of Pan 
The wild-goat's hoof-print on the loamy 

down. 
Exceeds our modern thinker who turns 

back 
The strata . . granite, limestone, coal 

and clay, 
Concludiag coldly with, 'Here's law! 

Where's God ?• 

And then at worse, — if Romney loves 

her not, — 
At worst, — if he's incapable of love. 
Which may be — then indeed, for such a 

man 
iacipableof love, she's good enough ; 
For she, at worst too, is a woman still 



And loves him .. as the sort of woman 
can. 

My loose long hair began to burn and 

creep, 
Alive to the very ends, about my knees : 
I swept it backward as the wind sweeps 

fl.ime. 
With the passion of my hands. Ah, 

Romney laughed 
One day . . (how full the memories come 

up!) 
' — Your Florence fire-flies live on in 

your hair,' 
He said, ' It gleams so.' Well, I wrung 

them out. 
My fire-flies ; made a knot as hard as 

life 
Of those'loose, soft, impracticable curls. 
And then sat down and thought . . 

' She shall not think 
Her thoughts of me,' — and drew my 

desk and wrote. 

'Dear Lady Waldemar, I could not 

speak 
With people round me, nor can sleep to- 
night 
And not sjjeak, after the great news I 

heard 
Of you and of my cousin. May you 

be 
Most happy ; and the good he meant 

the world. 
Replenish his own life. Say what I 

say. 
And let my word be sweeter for your 

mouth, 
As you axsyou . , I only Aurora Leigh.' 

That's quiet, guarded. Though she hold 

it up 
Against the light, she'll not see through 

it more 
Than lies there to be seen. So much for 

pride ; 
And now for peace, a little ! Let me 

stop 
All writing back . . 'Sweet thanks, my 

sweetest friend. 
You've made more joyful my great joy 

itself.' 
— No, that's too simple ! she would 

twist it thus. 



4i6 



Aim OK A LEIGH. 



'My joy would still be as sweet as 

thyme in drawers. 
Howevt;r shit up iii the dark and dry ; 
B-it violets, aired and dewed by love like 

yours, 
Out-smoU all thyme : we keep that in 

our clothes. 
But drop the other down our bosoms 

till 
They smell like ' . . ah, I see her writing 

back 
Just so. She'll make a nosegay of her 

word-i, 
And tie it with blue ribbons at the end 
To suit a poet ; — pshaw ! 

And then we'll have 
The ciU to church ; the broken, s.id, 

bid dream 
Dreamed out at last ; the marriage-vow 

complete 
With the marriage-breakfa-st ; praying 

in white gloves. 
Drawn off m haste for drinking p.igan 

to.ists 
In somewhat stronger wine than any 

.sipped 
By god> since Bacchus had his way 

with grapes. 

A postscript stops all that and rescues 
me. 

' You need not write. I have been over- 
worked, 

And think of leaving London, England 
even. 

And hastening to get nearer to the sun 

Where men sleep better. So, ad.eu.' — 
I fold 

And seal, — and now I'm out of all the 
coil ; 

I breatlie now ; I spring upward like a 
branch 

A ten -year school-boy with a crooked 
stick 

May pill down to his level in search of 
nuts, 

But cannot hold a moment. How we 
twang 

Back on the blue sky, and assert our 
height. 

While he stares after 1 Now, the won- 
der seems 

That I could wrong myself by such a 
doubt. 



We poets always have uneasy hearts ; 
Because cur hearts, large-roundod as the 

globe. 
Can turn but one side to the sun at once. 
We arc used to dip our artist-hands in 

And potash, trying potentialities 

(Jf alternated color, till at last 

We get confused, and wonder for our 

skin 
How nature tinged it first. Well — here's 

the true 
Good flesh-color: I recognise my hand. 
Which Komney Leigh may clasp as just 

a friend's. 
And keep his clean. 

And now, my Italy. 
AK>, if we could ride with nuked souls 
And m ike no noise and pay no price at 

all, 
I wo 11 have seen thee sooner, Italy, — 
For still I have heard thee crying 

through my life. 
Thou piercing silence of ecstatic graves. 
Men call that name ! 

But even a witch to-day 

Must melt down golden pieces in tha 
nard 

Wherewith to anoint her broomstick ere 
she rides ; 

And poet^ evermore are .scant of gold. 

And if they find a piece behind the 
door 

It turns by sunset to a withered leaf. 

The Devil himself scarce trusts his pat- 
ented 

Gold - making art to any who make 
rhymes, 

B It culls his Faustus from philosophers 

And not f o n poets. * Leave my Job,' 
said CIoJ, 

And so the Devil leaves him without 
pence. 

And poverty proves plainly special 
grace. 

In these new, just, administrative times 

Men clamour for an order of merit ; 
Whv ? 

Here's black bread on the table and no 
wine ! 

kx. leist I am a poet in being poor ; 

Thank God. I wonder if the manu- 
script 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Of my Ii;ng poem, if 'twere sold outright, 
Woiilil tetch enough to buy me shoes, to 
go 

A-foot, (thrown in, the necessary p.itch 

For the other side the Alps; ? it cannot 
be : 

I fear that I must sell this residue 

Of my father's books; although the 
Elz;virs 

Have fly - leaves over-written by his 
hand 

In faded notes as thick and fine and 
brown 

As cobwebs on a tawny monument 

Of the Old 0'c&^\iSr^con/ereHda hcec 
cum his — 

Corrupte citat — lege fiotius, 

And so on, in the scholar's regal way 

Of giving judgment on the parts of 
speech, 

Asifhesateon all twelve thrones up- 
piled. 

Arraigning Israel. Ay, but books and 
notes 

Must go together. And this Proclustoo 

In these dear quaint contracted Grecian 
types. 

Fantastically crumpled, like his thoughts 

Which would not seem too plaui ; you 
go round twice 

For one step forward, then you take it 
back 

Because you're somewhat giddy ; 
there's the rule 

For Proclus. Ah, I stained this middle 
leaf 

With pressmg in't my Florence iris- 
bell, 

Long stalk and all ; my father chided 
me 

For that stain of blue blood, — I recol- 
lect 

The peevish turn his voice took, — ' Sil- 
ly girls. 

Who plant their flowers in our philoso- 
phy 

To make it fine, and only spoil the 
book ! 

No more of it, Aurora.' Yes — no more ! 

Ah, blame of love, that's sweeter than 
all praise 

Of those who love not ! 'tis so lost on 
me, 

I cannot, in such beggared life, afl^ord 



To lose m.y Proclus. Not for Florence 
even. 

The kissing Judas, Wolfl", shall go in- 
stead. 

Who builds us such a royal book as 
this 

To honour a chief-poet, folio-built. 

And writes above, 'The house of No- 
'oody ;' 

Who floats in cream, as rich as any 
sucked 

From Juno's breasts, the broad Home- 
ric lines. 

And, while with their spondaic prodi- 
gious mouths 

They lap the lucent margins as babe- 
gods. 

Proclaims them bastards. Wolff's an 
atheist ; 

And if the Iliad fell out, as he says. 

By mere fortuitous concourse of old 
songs. 

Conclude as much too for the universe. 

That Wolff, those Platos : sweep the 
upper shelves 

As clean as this, and so I am almost 
rich. 

Which means, not forced to think of 
being poor 

In sight of ends. To-morrow : no de- 
lay. 

I'll wait in Paris till good Carrington 

Dispose of such, and, having chaffered 
for 

My book's yrice with the publisher, di- 
rect 

All proceeds to me. Just a line to ask 

His help. 

And now I come, my Italy, 

My own hills! Are you 'ware of me, 
my hills. 

How I burn toward you? do you feci 
to-night 

The urgency and yearning of my soul, 

As sleeping mothers feel the sucking 
babe 

And smile ? — Nay, not so much as when 
in heat 

Vain lightnings catch at your inviolate 
tops 

And tremble while ye arcstedfast. Still;, 
ye go 



4iS 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Vour own determined, calm, indifferent 
way 

Toward sunrise, shade by shade, and 
light by light ; 

Of all the grand progression nought left 
out ; 

As if God verily made you for your- 
selves. 

And would not interrupt your life with 
ours. 



SIXTH BOOK. 

The English have a scornful insular way 
Of calling the French light. The lev- 

Is in the judgment only, which yet 

stands ; 
For say a foolish thing but oft enough 
(And here's the secret of a hundred 

creeds, 
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell. 
By re-iteration chiefly) the same thing 
Shall pass at last for alisolutely wise. 
And not with fools exclusively. And so 
We say the French are light, as if we 

said 
The cat mews or the milch-cow gives 

us milk : 
Say rather, cats are milked and milch- 
cows mew ; 
For what is lightness but inconsequence, 
Vague fluctuation 'twi.xt effect and 

cause. 
Compelled by neither? Is a bullet 

light, 
That dashes from the gun-mouth, while 

the eye 
Winks and the heart beats one, to flat- 
ten itself 
To a wafer on the white speck on a 

wall 
A hundred paces off? Even so direct. 
So sternly imdivertible of aim. 
Is this French people. 

All idealists 
Too absolute and earnest, with them all 
The idea of a knife cuts real flesh ; 
And still, devouring the safe interval 
Which nature placed between the 
thought and act 



With those too fiery and impatient 
souls. 

They threaten confl.agration to the world 

And rush with most unscrupulous logic 
on 

Impossible practice. Set your orators 

To blow upon them with loud windy 
mouths 

Through watchword phrases, jest or 
sentiment. 

Which drives our burley brutal English 
mobs 

Like so much chaff, whichever way 
they blow, — 

Tliis light French people will not thus 
be driven. 

They turn indeed ; but then they turn 
upon 

Some central pivot of their thought and 
choice. 

And veer out by the force of holding 
fast. 

— -That's hard to understand, for En- 
glishmen 

Unused to abstract questions, and un- 
trained 

To trace the involutions, valve by valve. 

In each orbed bulb-root of a general 
truth. 

And mark what subtly fine integument 

Divides opposed compartments. Free- 
dom's self 

Comes concrete to us, to be understood. 

Fixed in a feudal form incarnately 

I'o suit our ways of thought and reve- 
rence. 

The special form, with us, being still 
the thing. 

With us, I .say, though I'm of Italy 

By mother's birth and grave, by father's 
grave 

And memory ; let it be, — a poet's heart 

Can swell to a pair of nationalities. 

However ill-lodged in a woman's 
breast. 

.\nd so I am strong to love this noble 

France, 
This Doet of the nations, who dreams on 
And wails on (while the household goes 

to wreck) 
For ever, after some ideal good, — 
Some equal poi.se of sex, some unvowcd 

love 



AURORA LEIGH. 



419 



Inviolate, some spontaneous brother- 
hood. 
Some wealth, that leaves none poor and 

finds none tired, 
Some freedom of the many that respects 
The wisdom of the lew. Heroic 

dreams ! 
Sublime, to dream so ; natviral, to wake: 
And sad, to use such lofty scaffoldings. 
Erected for the building of a church. 
To build instead a brothel . . or a pris- 
on — 
May God save France I 

And if at last she sighs 
Her great soul up into a great man's 

face. 
To flush his temples out so gloriously 
That few dare carp at Casar for being 

bald. 
What then ? — this Cssar represents, not 

reigns. 
And is no despot, though twice abso- 
lute : 
This Head has all the people for a 

heart ; 
This purple's lined with the democ- 
racy, — 
Now let him see to it ! for a rent within 
Must leave irreparable rags without. 

A serious riddle : find such anywhere 
E.tcept in France ; and when 'tis found 

in France, 
Bi sure to read it rightly. So, I mused 
Up and down, up and down, the ter- 
raced streets. 
The glittering Boulevards, the white 

colonnades 
Of fair fantastic Paris who wears trees 
Like plumes, as if man made them, spire 

and tower 
As if they had grown by nature, tossing 

"P . . 

Her fountains in the sunshine of the 

squares. 
As if in beauly's game she tossed the 

dice. 
Or blew the silver down-balls of her 

dreams 
To sow futurity with the seeds of thought 
And count the passage of her festive 

hours. 

The city swims in verdure, beautiful 



As Venice on the waters, the sea-swan. 
What bosky gardens dropped m close- 
walled courts 
As plums in ladies' laps, who start and 

laugh ; 
What miles of streets that run on after 

trees. 
Still carrying all the necessary shops. 
Those open caskets with the jewels seen! 
And trade is art, and art's philosophy. 
In Paris. There's a silk, for instance, 

there. 
As worth an artist's study for the folds. 
As that bronze opposite ! nay, the bronze 

has faults ; 
Art's here too artful, — conscious as a 

maid 
Who leans to mark her sViadow on the 

wall 
Until she lose a 'vantage in her step. 

Yet Art walks forward, and knows 

where to walk : 
The artists aiso are idealists. 
Too absolute ior nature, logical 
To austerity in the application of 
The special theory : not a soul content 
To paint a crooked pollard and an^ass. 
As the English will, because they find 

it so 
And like it somehow. — There the old 

Tuileries 
Is pulling its high cap down on its eyes. 
Confounded, conscience-stricken, and 

amazed * 

By the apparition of a new fair face 
In those devouring mirrors. Through 

the grate 
Within the gardens, what a heap of 

babes. 
Swept up like leaves beneath the chest- 
nut trees 
From every street and alley of the town. 
By ghosLs perhaps that blow too bleak 

this way 
A-looking for their heads ! Dear pretty 

babes, 
I wish them luck to have their ball-play 

out 
Before the next change. Here the ait 

IS thronged 
With statues poised upon their columns 

fine. 
As if to stand a moment were a feat. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Against thnt blue! What squares! 

what breathing-room 
For a nation that runs fast, — ay, runs 

against 
The dentist's teeth at the corner in pale 

rows, 
Which grin at progress in an epigram. 

I walked the day out, listening to the 
chink 

Of the first Napoleon's dry bones in his 
second grave 

By victories guarded 'iiealh the golden 
dome 

That caps all Paris like a bubble. 'Shall 

These dry ijones live,' thought Louis 
Philippe once. 

And lived to know. Herein is argu- 
ment 

For kings and politicians, but still more 

For poets, who bear buckets to tli.: well 

Of ampler draught. 

These crowds are very good 
For meditation, (when we are very 

strong) 
Though love of beauty makes us timor- 
ous. 
And draws us backward from the coarse 

town-sights 
To count the daisies upon dappled h ;lds. 
And hear tlie streams 'oleat on ;i.mong 

the hills 
In innocetit and indolent repose ; 
While still with silken elegiac thoughts 
We wind out from us the distracting 

wor'. d 
And die into the chrysalis of a man. 
And leiive the best that may, to come of 

us 
In some brown moth. 1 would be bold 

and bear 
Tnlook into the swarthiest face of things. 
For God's .sake who has made them. 



Six days' work ; 

The Last day shutting 'twi.\t its dawn 
and eve. 

The whole work bettered of the pre- 
vious five I 

Since God collected and resumed in 
man 



The firmaments, the strata, and the 

lightu. 
Fish, fowl, and beast, and lUsect, — all 

their trams 
Of various life caught back upon His 

arm, 
Reorganised, and constituted MAN, 
The microcosm, the adding up of works ; 
Within whose fluttering nostrils, then, 

at last 
Consummating Himself the Maker sigh- 
ed. 
As some strong winner at the foot race 

sighs 
Touching the goal 

Humanity is great ; 
And, if I would not ratlier pour upon 
An ounce of common, ugly, human dust, 
An artisan's palm or a peasant's brow, 
Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and God, 
Than track old Nihis to his silver roots. 
And wait on all the changes of the 

moon 
Among the mountain-peaks of Thessaly, 
(Until her magic crystal round itself 
For many a witch to see in) — set it down 
As weakness, — strength by no means. 

How is this 
That men of science, osteologists 
And surgeons, beat some poets in respect 
For nature, — count nought common or 

unclean. 
Spend raptures upon perfect specimens 
Of indurated veins, distorted joints. 
Or be uitiful new cases of curved spine ; 
While we, we are shocked at nature's 

falling off. 
We dare to shrink back from her warts 

and blains. 
We will not, when she sneezes, look at 

her. 
Not even to say, 'God bless her ? 

That's our wrong. 
For that, she will not trust us often with 
Her larger sense of beauty and desire. 
But tethers us to a lily or a rose 
."^nd bids us diet on the dew inside. 
Left ignorant that the hungry beggar- 
boy 
(Who stares unseen against our absent 

eyes. 
And wonders at the gods that we must 

bo. 
To pass so carelessly for the oranges !) 



A UK OR A LEIGH. 



Bears yit a breastful of a fellow-world 
'i'o tins vvorlcl, undisparaged, unde- 

spoiled. 
And iwhile we scorn him for a flower or 

two, 
As being. Heaven help lis, less poetical) 
Contanis himself both flowers and fir- 
maments 
And surging seas and aspectable stars 
And all that we would push him out of 

sight 
In order to see nearer. Let us pray 
God's grace to keep God's image in re- 
pute : 
That so the poet and philanthropist 
(Even I and Romney) may stand side 

by side, 
Because we both stand face to face with 

men 
Contenipla'.irig the people in the rough, 
Yet each sc follow a vocation, — his 
And mine. 

J /•• liked on, musing with myself 
On life a- d art, and whether after all 
A larger metaphysics might not help 
Our physics, a completer poetry 
Adjust our daily life and vulgar wants 
More fully than the special outside 

plans. 
Phalansteries, material institutes. 
The civil conscriptions and lay monas- 
teries 
Preferred by modern thinkers, as they 

thought 
The bread of man indeed made all his 

life. 
And washing seven times in the ' Peo- 
ple's Baths ' 
Were sovereign for a people's leprosy. 
Still leaving out the essential prophet's 

word 
That comes in power. On which, we 

thunder down. 
We prophets, poets, — Virtue's in the 

luord / 
The maker burnt the darkness up wltli 

His, 
To inaugurate the use of vocal life ; 
And, plant a poet's word even, deep 

enough 
Itj any man's brea.st, looking presently 
For offshoots, you have done more for 
the man i 



Than if you dressed him in a broad- 

, cloth coat 
And warmed his Sunday potage at )o;ir 

fire. 
Yet Romney leaves me . . . 

God 1 what face is that ? 
O Romney, O Marian ! 

Walking on the quays 
And pulling thoughts to pieces leisurely. 
As if I caught at grasses in a field 
And bit them slow between my absent 

lips. 
And shred them with my hands . . 

What face is that ? 
What a face, what a look, what a like- 
ness ! Full on mine 
The sudden blow of it came down, till 

all 
My blood swam, my eyes dazzled. 
1'hen 1 sprang — 

It was as if a meditative man 

Were dreaming out a summet afternoon 

And watching gnats a-prick upon a 

pond. 
When something floats up suddenly, out 

there. 
Turns over . . a dead face, known once 

alive — 
So old, so new ! It would be dreadful 

now 
To lose the sight and keep the doubt of 

this. 
He plunges — ha! he has lost it in the 

splash. 

I plunged — I tore the crowd up, either 

side. 
And rushed on, — forward, forward . . 

after her. 
Her? whom? 

A woman sauntered slow in front. 
Munching an apple, — she left off 

amazed 
As if 1 had snatched it : that's not she, 

at lea.st. 
A man walked arm-linked with .i lady 

veiled. 
Both he:ids dropped closer than the 

neel of talk : 
They started ; he forgot her v.ith his 

face, 
And she, herself, — and clung to him as i^ 



AURORA LEIGH. 



lly look were fatal. Such a stream of 
folk. 

And all with cares and business of their 

iiwn ! 
I ran the whole quay down against their 
eyes ; 

No Marian ; nowhere Marian. Almost, 
now, 

I could call Marian, Marian, with the 
shriek 

Of desperate creatures calling for the 
Dead. 

Where is she, was she ? was she any- 
where ? 

I stood still, breathless, gazing, strain- 
ing out 

In every uncertain distance, till at last, 

A gentleman abstracted as myself 

Came full against me, then resolved the 
clash 

In voluble excuses, — obviously 

Some learned member of the Institute 

Upon his way there, walking, for his 
health, 

While meditating on the last ' Dis- 
course ;' 

Pinching the empty air 'twixt finger 
and thumb. 

From which the snuff being ousted by 
that shock, 

Defiled his snow-white waistcoat duly 
pricked 

At the button-hole with honourable red ; 

' Madame, your pardon,' — there he 
swerved from me 

A metre, as confounded as he had 
heard 

That Dumas would be chosen to fill up 

The next chair vacant, by his ' men in 
us' ' 

Since when was genius found respecta- 
ble ? 

It passes in its place, indeed, — which 
means 

The seventh floor back, or else the hos- 
pital : 

Revolving pistols are ingenious things. 

But prudent men (Academicans are) 

Scarce keep them in the cupboard next 
the prunes. 

And so. abandoned to a bitter mirth, 
I loitered to my inn. O world, O 
world. 



O jurists, rhymers, dreamers, what j'ou 

please. 
We play a weary game of hide and 

seek ! 
We shape a figure of our fantasy. 
Call nothing something, and run after 

it 
And lose it, lose ourselves too in the 

search. 
Till clash against us, comes a some- 
body 
Who also has lost something and is 

lost. 
Philosopher against Philanthropist, 
Academician against poet, man 
Against woman, against the living tUe 

dead, — 
Then home, with a bad headache and 

worst jest. 

To change the water for my helio- 
tropes 
And yellow roses. Paris has such 

flowers. 
But England, also. 'Twas a yellow 

rose. 
By that south window of the little 

house. 
My cousin Romney gathered with his 

hand 
On all my birthdays for me, save the 

last ; 
And then I .shook the tree too rough. tc« 

rough. 
For roses to stay after. 

Now, my maps. 
I must not linger here from Italy 
Till the last nightingale is tired of song. 
And the last fire-fly dies off in the 

maize. 
My soul's in ha.ste to leap into the sum 
And scorch and seethe itself to a finer 

mood, 
Which here, in this chill north, is apt to 

stand 
Too stiffly in former moulds. 

That face persists. 
It floats up, it turns over in my mind. 
As like to Marian, as one dead is like 
The same alive. In very deed a face 
And not a fancy, though it v.-*nished so ; 
The small fair face between the darks 
of hair. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I iised to liken, when I saw her first. 
To a point of moonlit water down a well: 
The low brow, the frank space between 

the eyes. 
Which always had the brown pathetic 

look 
Of a dumb creature who had been beaten 

once 
And never since was easy with the 

world. 
Ah, ah — now I remember perfectly 
Those eyes to-day, — how overlarge they 

seemed. 
As if some patient passionate despair 
(Like a coal dropt and forgot on tapes- 

Which slowly burns a widening circle 

out) 
Had burnt them larger, larger. And 

those eyes 
To-day, I do remember, saw me too. 
As I saw them, with conscious lids 

astrain 
In recognition. Now a fantasy, 
A simple shade or image of the brain. 
Is merely passive, does not retro-act. 
Is seen, but sees not. 

'Twas a real face, 
Perhaps a real Marian. 

Which being so, 
I ought to write to Romney, ' Marian's 

here. 
Be comforted for Marian.' 

My pen fell. 
My hands struck sharp together as 

hands do 
Which hold at nothing. Can I write to 

him 
A half truth ? can I keep my own soul 

blind 
To the other half, . . the worse ? What 

are our souls. 
If still, to run on straight a sober pace 
Nor start at every pebble or dead leaf. 
They must wear blinkers, ignore facts, 

suppress 
Si.K tenths of the road ? Confront the 

truth, my •soul ! 
And oh, as truly as that was Marian's 

face, 
The arms of that same Marian clasped 

a thing 



. . Not hid so well beneath the scanty 

shawl, 
I cannot name it now for what it was. 

A child. Small business has a cast- 
away- 
Like Marian with that crown of prosper- 
ous wives. 

At which the gentlest she grows arro- 
gant 

And says, 'my child.' Who'll find an 
emerald ring 

On a beggar's middle finger, and require 

More testimony to convict a thief? 

A child's too costly for .so mere a wretch ; 

She filched it somewhere ; and it means, 
with her. 

Instead of honor, blessing, . . merely 
shame 

I cannot write to Romney, ' Here she is. 

Here's Marian found ! I'll set you on 
her track : 

I saw her here, in Paris, . . and her 
child. 

She put away your love two years ago. 

But, plainly, not to starve. You suf- 
fered then ; 

And, now that you've forgot her utterly 

As any last year's annual in whose place 

You've planted a thick flowering ever- 
green, 

I choose, being kind, to write and tell 
you this 

To make you wholly easy — she's not 
dead. 

But only . . damned.' 

Stop there : I go too fast. 

I'm cruel like the rest, — in haste to take 

The first stir in the arras for a rat, 

And set my barking, biting thoughts 
upoii't. 

— A child! what then? Suppose a 
neighbour's sick 

And asked her, 'Marian, carry out my 
child 

In this Spring air,' — I punish her for , 
that ? 

Or say, the child should hold her round 
the neck 

For good child-reasons, that he liked it 
so 

And would not leave her — she had win- 
ning ways — 



424 AURORA 


LEIGH. 


I brand her therefore that she took the 


Mathildes, Justines, Victoircs, . . or, if I 


child? 


sought 


Not so. 


The English Betsis. Saras, by the score. 


I will not write to Romney Leigh. 


They might as well go out into the 


For now he's happy, — and she may in- 


fields 


deed 


To find a speckled bean, that's somehow 


Be giiiltv, — and the knowledge of her 


specked. 


fault 


And somewhere in the pod.' — They loft 


Would draggle his smooth time. But I, 


me so. 


whose days 


Shall / leave Marian ? have I dreamed 


Are not so fine they cannot bear the 


a dream ? 


rain, 


— I thank God I have found her ? I 


And who moreover having seen her 


must say 


face 


' Thank God,' for finding her, although 


Must see it again, . . ■zw/7/ see it, by my 


'tis true 


hopes 


I find the world more sad and wicked 


Of one day seeing heaven too. The 


for't. • 


police 


But she — 


Shall track her, hound her, ferret their 


I'll write about her, presently ; 


own soil ; 


My hand's a-tremble as I had just 


We'll dig this Paris to its catacombs 


caught np 


But certainly we'll find her, have her 


My he.art to write with, in the place 


out. 


of it. 


And save her, if she will or will not — 


At least you'd take these letters to be 


child 


writ 


Or no child, — if a child, then one to 


At sea, in storm ! — wait now . . 


save ! 


A .simple chance 




Did all I could not sl-sep last night, 


The long weeks passed on without con- 


and tired 


sequence. 


Of turnmg on my pillow and harder 


As easy find a footstep on the sand 


thoughts. 


The morning after spring-tide, as the 


Went out at early morning, when the 


trace 


air 


Of Marian's feet between the incessant 


Is delicate with some last starry touch, 


surfs 


To wander through the Market-place of 


Of this live flood. She may have 


Flowers 


moved this way, — 


(The prettiest haunt in Paris), and make 


But so the star-fish does, and crosses out 


sure 


'J'he dent of her small shoe. The foiled 


At worst that there were roses in the 


police 


world 


Renounced me ; ' Could they find a girl 


So waidering, musing with the artist's 


and chdd, 


eye. 


No other signalment but a girl and 


That keeps the shade-side of the thing 


child? 


it loves. 


' No data shown but noticeable eyes 


Half-absent, whole-observing, while the 


And hair in masses, low upon the brow, 


crowd 


As if it were an iron crown and pressed ? 


Of young vivacious and black-braided 


Friends heighten, and suppose they 


heads 


specify : 


Dipped, quiik as finches in a blossomed 


Why, girls with hair and eyes, are every- 


tree, 


where 


Among the nosegays, cheapening tliis 


]n Paris ; they had turned me up in 


and that 


vain 


In such a cheerful twitter of rapid 


No Marian Erie indeed, but certainly 


.speech, — 



AURORA LEIGH. 



425 



My heart leapt in me, startled by a voice 
ihat slowly, faintly, with long breaths 

that marked 
The interval between the wish and 

word. 
Inquired in stranger's French, ' Would 

i/iat be much, 
That branch of flowering mountain- 

gorse ? — ' So much V 
Too much for me, then ! ' turning the 

face round 
So close upon me, that I felt the sigh 
It turned with. 

' Marian, Marian ! ' — face to face — 
' Marian ! I find you. Shall I let you 

go-' 
I held her two slight wrists with both 

my hands ; 
'Ah Alarian, Marian, can I let you go?' 
— She fluttered from me like a cycla- 
men, 
As white, which taken in a sudden wind 
Beats on against the palisade. — ' Let 

pass,' 
She said at last. ' I will not,'. I replied ; 
' I lost my sister Marian many days, 
And sought her ever in my walks and 

prayers, 
And now I find her ... do we throw 

away 
The bread we worked and prayed for,^ 

crumble it 
And drop it, . . to do even so by thee 
Whom still I've hungered after more 

than bread, 
My sister Marian ? — Can I hurt thee, 

dear? 
Then why distrust me ? Never tremble 

so. 
Come with me rather where we'll talk 

and live 
And none shall vex us. I've a home for 

you 
And me and no one else ' . . . 

She shook her head. 
' A home for you and me and no one 

else 
Ill-suits one of us : I prefer to suc'n, 
A roof of grass on which a flower might 

spring, 
Less costly to me than the cheapest 

here ; 
And yet I could not, at this hour, afford 
A like home even. That you offer yours. 



I thank you. You are good as heaven 
Itself— 

As good as one I knew before . . Fare- 
well ! ' 

I loosed her hands. — ' In his name, no 
farewell !' 

(She stood as if I held her,) 'for his 
sake, 

B'or his sake, Romney's 1 by the good he 
meant. 

Ay, always ! by the love he pressed for 
once, — 

And by the grief, reproach, abandon- 
ment. 

He took in change ' . . 

■ He, Roniney ! who grieved him ? 

Who had the heart for't? what reproach 
touched him f 

Be merciful, — speak quickly.' 

■ Iherefore come.' 

I answered with authority, — ' I think 

We dare to speak such things and name 
such names 

In the open squares of Paris ! ' 

Not a word 
She said, but in a gentle humbled way. 
(As one who had forgot herself uigriet) 
Turned round and followed closely 

where I went. 
As if 1 led her by a narrow plank 
Across devouring waters, step by step, — • 
And so in silence we walked on a mile. 

And then she stopped : her face was 

white as wax. 
' We go much further ?' 

' You are ill,' I asked, 
' Or tired ?' 

She looked the whiter for her smile. 
' There's one at home,' she said, ' has 

need of me 
By this time, — and I must not let hiiu 

wait.' 

' Not even,' I asked, ' to hear of Romney 

Leigh ?' 
' Not even,' she said, ' to hear of Mister 

Leigh.' 

' In that case,' I resumed, ' I go with 

you, 
And we can talk the same thing there 

as here. 



436 



AURORA LEIGH. 



None waits for me : 1 have my day to 
spend.' 

Her lips moved in a spasm without a 

sound, — 
Kut then she spoke. ' It shall be as you 

please ; 
And better so — 'tis .shorter seen than 

told. 
And though you will not find oe worth 

your pains. 
That even, may be worth f ome pains to 

know 
For one as good as you are.' 

Then she led 
The way, and I, as by a narrow plank 
Across devouruig waters, followed her. 
Stepping by her footsteps, breathing by 

her breath. 
And holding her with eyes that would 

not slip ; 
And so, without a word, we walked a 

mile. 
And so, another mile, without a word. 

Until the peopled streets being all dis- 
missed, 

House-rows fsid groups all scattered 
like a flock. 

The market-gardens thickened, and the 
long 

White walls beyond, like spiders' out- 
side thread.s. 

Stretched, feeling blindly toward the 
country-fields 

Through half-built habitations and half- 
dug 

Foundations, — intervals of trenchant 
chalk. 

That bit betwixt the grassy uneven 
turfs 

Where goats (vine tendrils trailing from 
their mouths) 

Stood perched on edges of the cellarage 

Which should be, staring as about to 
leap 

To find their coming Bacchus. All the 
place 

Seemed less a cultivation than a waste : 

Men work here, only, — scarce begin to 
live : 

All's sad, the country struggling with 
the town. 



Like an untamed hawk upon a strong 

man's fist. 
That beats its wings and tries to get 

away. 
And cannot choose be .satisfied so soon 
To hop through court - yards with its 

right foot tied. 
The vmtage plains and pastoral hills in 

sight. 

We stopped beside a house too liigh and 

slim 
To stand there by itself, but waiting till 
Five others, two on this side, three on 

that. 
Should grow up from the sullen second 

floor 
They pau.se at now, to build it to a row. 
The upper windows partly were un- 

glazed 
Meantime, — a meagre, unripe house : a 

line 
Of rigid poplars elbowed it behind. 
And just in front, beyond the lime and 

bricks 
That wronged the grass between it and 

the road, 
A great acacia with its slender trunk 
And overpoise of multitudinous leaves, 
(In which a hundred fields might spill 

their dew 
And intense verdure, yet find room 

enough) 
Stood reconciling all the place with 

green. 

I followed up the stair upon her step. 

She hurried upward, shot across a face, 

A woman's on the landing, — ' How now, 
now I 

Is no one to have holidays but you? 

You said an hour, and staid three hours, 
I think. 

And Julie waiting for your betters here ? 

Why if he had waked, he might have 
waked, for me.' 

— Just murmuring an excusing word she 
passed 

And shut the rest out with the chamber- 
door. 

Myself shut in beside her. 

'Twas a room 

Scarce larger than a grave, and near as 
bare ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



427 



Two stools, a pallet-bed ; I saw the 

roam : 
A mo.ise could find no sort of shelter 

in't, 
Much less a greater secret ; curtain- 
less,— 
The window fixed you with its torturing 

eye, 
Defyuig you to take a step apart 
If perad venture you would hide a thing. 
I saw the whole room, 1 and Marian 

there 
Alone. 

Alone ? She threw her bonnet o(T, 
Then sighing as 'twere sighing the last 

time. 
Approached the bed, and drew a shawl 

away : 
You could not peel a fruit you fear to 

bruise 
More calmly and more carefully than 

so, — ■ 
Nor would you find within, a rosier 

flushed 
Pomegranate — 

There he lay upon his back, 
The yearling creature, warm and moist 

with life 
To the bottom of his dimples, — to the 

ends 
Of the lovely tumbled curls about his 

face ; 
For since he had been covered over- 
much 
To keep him from the light glare, both 

his cheeks 
Were hot and scarlet as the first live 

rose 
The shepherd's heart-blood ebbed away 

into, 
The faster for his love. And love was 

here 
As instant : in the pretty baby-mouth, 
Shut close as if for dreaming that it 

sucked ; 
The little naked feet drawn up the way 
Of nestled birdlings ; everything so 

soft 
And tender, — to the tiny holdfast 

hands, 
Which, closing on the finger into sleep. 
Had kept the mould oft. 

While we stood there dumb. 



For oh, that it should take such inno- 
cence 

To prove just guilt, I thought, and stood 
there dumb ; 

The light upon his eyelids pricked them 
wide, 

And, staring out at us with all their 
blue, 

As half perplexed between the angel- 
hood 

He had been away to visit in his sleep. 

And our most mortal presence, — gradu- 
ally 

He saw his mother's face, accepting it 

In change for heaven itself, with such a 
smile 

As might have well been learnt there, — 
never moved. 

But smiled on in a drowse of ecstasy. 

So happy (half with her and half with 
heaVen) 

He could not have the trouble to be 
stirred, 

But smiled and lay there. Like a rose, 
1 said : 

As red and still indeed as any rose. 

That blows in all the silence of its 
leaves, 

Content, in blowing, to fulfil its life. 

She leaned above him (drinking him as 

wine) 
In that extremity of love, 'twill pas^ 
For agony or rapture, seeing that love 
Includes the whole of nature, rounding 

it 
To love . . no more, — since more can 

never be 
Than just love. Self-forgot, cast out of 

self. 
And drowning in the transport of the 

sight. 
Her whole pale passionate face, mout!i, 

forehead, eyes. 
One gaze, she stood : then, slowly as he 

smiled, 
She smiled too, slowly, smiling unaware. 
And drawing from his countenance to 

hers 
A fainter red, as if she watched a flame 
And stood iii it a-glow. ' How beauti- 
ful.' 
Said she. 



42J 



Ai/KOKA LEIGH. 



I nnswered, trying to be cold. 

(M'.ist sji have compensations, was my 
tiiou.:;liC. 

A; if It wero a holy thing like grief? 

AiiJ IS a woman to be fooled aside 

From putting vice down, With that wo- 
man's toy 

A baby?, 'Ay! t'ae child, i; v/ell 

enough,' 

1 answered. ' If his mother's palms are 
clean 

They need be glad of course in claspin^j 
such : 

But if not, — I would rather lay my hand. 

Were I she,— on God's brazen altar-bar. 

Red-hot with burning sacrificial lai/lhs, 

Than touch the sacred curls of such a 
child.' 

She plunged her fingers in Km clu:.tering 
locks. 

As one who would not be afraid of fire ; 

And then with indrawiv s.i;e;«dy utter- 
ance said, 

' My lamb, my lamb ! although, through 
such as thou. 

The most unclean got courage and ap- 
proach 

To God, ouce.^now they cannot, even 
with men. 

Find grace enough for pity and gentle 
words.' 

' My Marian,' I made answer, grave 

and sad, 
' The priest who stole a lamb to offer 

him, 
Was still a thief. And if a woman steals 
(Through God's own barrier-hedges of 

true love, 
Which fence out license in securing 

love) 
A child like this, that .smiles so in her 

face. 
S'le is no mother but a kidnapper. 
And he's a dismal orphan . . not a son ; 
Whom all lier kisses cannot feed so full 
Hj will not miss hereafier a pare home 
To liv-' in. a pure heart to lean against, 
A pure good mother's name and mem- 
ory 
To hope by. when the world grows thick 

and bad. 
And he feels out for virtue.' 



' Oh,' .slie .smiled 
With bitter paticiic^, tK<: cnild lakes 

his chaiic-'. ' 

Not much worse off in being fatherless , 
Than I v/at, fat.iertd. He will say, be 

like. 
His mother was the saddest creature 

born ; 
He'll .say his mother lived so contrary 
J'o joy, that even the kindest, seeing her, 
Giew sometimes almost cruel : he'll not 

say * 

She flew contr.arious in the face of God 
Vv^ith bat-wings of her vices. Stole my 

child.— 
My flower of earth, my only flower on 

earth. 
My sweet, my beauty !' . . Up she 

snatched the child, 
And, breaking on him in a storm of 

tears. 
Drew ovit her long sobs from their shiver- 
ing roots. 
Until he took it for a game, and stretch- 
ed 
His feet and flapped his eager arms like 

wings. 
And crowed and gurgled through his 

infant laugh : 
' Mine, mine,' she said ; ' I have as sure 

a right 
As any glad proud mother in the world. 
Who sets her darling down to cut his 

teeth 
Upon her church-ring. If she talks of 

law, 
I talk of law ! I claim my mother-dues 
By law, — the law which now is para- 

moiuit ; 
The common law, by which the poor 

and weak 
Are trodden underfoot by vicious men. 
And lo.atlied for ever after by the good. 
Let pass ! I did not filch . . I found 

the child.' 

' You found him. Marian ?' 

• Ay, 1 found him where 
I found my curse, — in the gutter, with 

my shame ! 
Wliat have you, any of you, to say to 

that. 
Who all are happy.and sit safe and high 



AURORA LEIGH. 



429 



And never spoke before to arraign niy 

right 
To grid Itself? What, what, .. being 

beaten down 
By hoofs of maddened oxen into a ditch. 
Half-dead, whole mangled, . when a girl 

at last. 
Breathes, sees . . and finds there, bed- 
ded in her flesh. 
Because of the extremity of the shock. 
Some com of price ! . . and when a 

good man comes 
(That's God ! the best men are not quite 

as good) 
And says, ' I dropped the coin there : 

take it yon, 
And keep it,— it shall pay you for the 

loss,'— 
You all put up your finger — ' See the 

thief! 
' Observe that precious thing she has 

come to filch : 
' How bad those girls are !' Oh, my 

flower, my pet, 
I dare forget 1 have you in my arms. 
And fly off to be angry with the world, 
And fright yon, hurt you with my tem- 
pers, till 
You double up your lip ? Why, that 

indeed 
Is bad : a naughty mother I 

' Voii mistake,' 
1 interrupted, ' If I loved you not, 
I should not, Marian, certainly habere. 

' Alas.' she said, ' you are so very good ; 

And yet I wish indeed you had never 
come 

To make me sob until I vex the child. 

It is not wholesome for these pleasure- 
plats 

To be so early watered by our brine. 

And then, who knows? he may not like 
me now '' 

As well, perhaps, as ere lie saw me fret. 

One's ugly fretting ! he has eyes the 
sam.: 

As angels, but he cannot sec as deep. 

And so I've kept for ever in his sight 

A -sort of smile to please him, as y«u 
place 

A green thing from the garden in a cup, 

To make believe it grows there. Look, 
my sweet, 



j\[y cowslip-ball 1 we've done with that 

cr'iss lace, 
And here's the face come back you 

used to like. 
Ah, ah ! he laughs! he Lkes me. Ah, 

Miss Leigh, 
Yqu're great and pure; but were you 

purer still, — 
As if yoi had walked, we'll say, no 

otherwhere 
Than up and down the new Jerusalem, 
And held your trailing lutestring up 

yourself 
From brushing the twelve stones, for 

fear of some 
Small speck as little as a needle-prick. 
White stitched on white, — the child 

would keep to me 
Would choose his poor lost Marian, like 

me best. 
And, though you stretched your arms, 

cry back and cling. 
As we do when God says it's t me to die 
And bids us go up higher. Leave us, 

then ; 
We two are happy. Does he push me off^? 
He's satisfied with me, as I with him.' 

' So soft to one, so hard to others ! Nay,' 
1 cried, more angry that she melted me, 
' We make henceforth a cushion of our 

faults 
To sit and practise easy virtues on ? 
I thought a child was given to st.nctify 
A woman, — set her in the sight of all 
The clear- eyed heavens, a chosen min- 
ister 
To do their busine.ss and lead spirits up 
The difficult blue heights. A woman 

lives. 
Not bettered, quickened toward the 

truth and good 
Through being a mother ? . . then she's 

none ! although 
She damps her baby's cheeks by kissing 

them, 
) As we kill roses ' 

' Kill ! O Christ,' she said. 
And turned her wild sad face from side 

to side 
With most despairing wonder in it — 

■ What, 
What have you in your souls against me 

then. 



43° 



auro!:a letch. 



Ail of you t am I wicked, do you think 1 
(lod knows me, trusts mc with a child : 

but you, 
Vou tlunk me really wicked ?' 

' Complaisant' 
I answered softly, ' to a wrong you've 

done, 
Because of certain profits, — -which is 

wrong 
Beyond the first wrong, Marian. When 

you left 
The pure place and the noble heart, to 

take 
The hand of a seducer' . . 

' Whom ? whose hand ? 
I took the hand of . . 

Springing up erect 
And lifting up the child at full arms' 

length, 
As if to bear him like an oriflamme 
Unconquerable to armies of reproach, — 
' By him' she said, ' my child's head 

and its curls, 
By those blue eyes no woman born could 

dare 
A perjury on, I make my mother's oath. 
That if 1 left that Heart, to h.ghten it, 
The blood of mine was still, except for 

gri?f! 
No cleaner maid than I was, took a step 
To a sadder end, — no matron-mother 

now 
Looks backward to her early maiden- 
hood 
Through chaster pulses. 1 speak stead- 

And if I he so, . . if, being fouled in 

will 
And paltered with in soul by devil's 

lust, 
1 dared to bid this angel take-my part, . . 
Would God sit quiet, let us think, in 

heaven. 
Nor strike me dumb with thunder ? Yet 

I speak : 
He clears me therefore. What, 'se- 
duced' 's your word ? 
Do wolve; seduce a wandering fawn in 

France? 
Do eagles, who liave pinched a lamb 

with claws, 
Seduce it into carrion ? So with me. 
I was not ever, as you .say, seduced, 
But simply, murdered.' 



There rhc paused, and ?ighed, 
With such a sigh as drops trom agony 
To exhaustion, — sighing while she let 

the babe 
Slide down upon her bosom from her 

arms. 
And all her face's light fell after him, 
Like a torch quenched m falling 

Down she sank. 
And he sate upon the bed.side witli the 

child. 
But I, convicted, broken utterly, 
With woman's passion clung about her 

waist, 
And kissed her hair and eyes, — • I have 

been wrong. 
Sweet Marian ' . . (weeping in a tender 

rage) 
'Sweet holy Marian! And now. Ma- 
rian, now, 
I'll use your oath although my lips are 

hard. 
And by the child, my Marian, by the 

child, 
I'll swear his mother shall be innocent 
Before my conscience, as in the open 

1 '.ook 
Of Him who reads our judgment. In- 
nocent, 
My sister ! let the night be ne'er so 

dark, 
The moon is surely somewhere in the 

sky : _ 
So surely is your whiteness to be foun i 
Through all dark facts. But pardon, 

pardon me. 
And smile a little, Marian, — for the 

child, 
If not for me, my sister.' 

The poor lip 
Just motioned for the smile and let it 

S° ■ . . 
And then, with scarce a stirring of the 

mouth. 
As if a statue spoke that could not 

breathe. 
But spoke on calm between its marble 

lips, — 
' I'm glad, I'm very gl.ad you clear me 

so. 
I should be sorry that you set me down 
With harlots, or with even a better 



AURORA LEIGH. 



43' 



Which misbecomes his mother. For 
the rest 

1 am not on a level with your love. 

Nor ever was, you know, — but now am 
worse. 

Because that world of yours has dealt 
with me 

As when the hard sea bites and chews a 
stone 

jAnd changes the first form of it. I've 
marked 

A shore of pebbles bitten to one s-hape 

From all the various life of madre- 
pores ; 

Arid so, that little stone, called Marian 
Erie, 

Picked up and dropped by you another 
friend, 

Was ground and tortured by the inces- 
sant sea 

And bruised from what she was, — 
changed ! death's a change. 

And she, 1 .said, was murdered ; Ma- 
rian's dead. 

What can you do with people when 
they are dead. 

But, if you are pious, sing a hymn and 

Or, if you are tender, heave a sigh and 

go. 
But go by all means, — and permit the 

grass 
To keep its green feud up 'twixt them 

and you ? 
Then leave me, — let me rest. I'm 

dead, I say. 
And if, to save the child from death as 

well. 
The mother in me has survived the 

rest, 
Why, that's God's miracle you must not 

tax, 
I'm not less dead for that : I'm nothing 

more 
But just a mother. Only for the child, 
I'm warm, and cold, and hungry, and 

afraid. 
And smell the flowers a little, and see 

the sun. 
And speak still, and am silent, — ^just for 

htm ! 
I pray you therefore to mistake me not. 
And treat me haply as I were alive ; 
For though you ran a pin into my soul, 



I think it would not hurt or trouble me. 
Here's proof, dear lady, — in the .mark- 
et-place 
But now, you promised me to say a 

word 
About . . a friend, who once, long years 

.ig_o. 
Took God's place toward me, when He 

leans and loves 
And does not thunder, . . whom at last 

I left. 
As all of iLs leave God. You thought 

perhaps 
I seemed to care for hearing of that 

friend ? 
Now, judge me ! we have sate here half 

an hour 
And talked together of the child and 

me. 
And I not asked as much as, ' What's 

the thing 
You had to tell me of the friend . . the 

friend ? ' 
He's sad, I think you said, — he's sick 

pocba^s,? 
'Tis nought to Marian if he's sad or sick. 
Another would have crawled beside 

your foot 
And prayed your words out. Why, a 

beast, a dog, 
A starved cat, if he had fed it once with 

milk. 
Would .show less hardness. But I'm 

dead, you see. 
And that explains it.' 

Poor, poor thing, she spoke 
And shook her head, as white and calm 

as frost 
Or days too cold for raining any more, 
But still with such a face, so much 

alive, 
I could not choose but take it on my 

arm 
And stroke the placid patience of its 

cheeks, — 
And told my story out, of Romney 

Leigh, 
How, having lost her, sought her, missed 

her still. 
He. broken-hearted for himself and her, 
Had drawn the curtains of the world 

awhile 
As if he had done with morning. There 

I stopped. 



43<» 



AURORA LKICU. 



For when she gasped, and pressed me 

with her eyes, 
' And now . . liow is it with him? tell 

me now,' 
I felt the shame of compensated grief. 
And chose my words with scruple — 

slowly stepped 
Upon the slippery stones set here and 

there 
Across the sliding water. ' Certainly 
As evening empties morning into night, 
Another morning takes the evening up 
With healthful, providential inter- 
change ; 
And though he thought still of her,' — 

' Yes, she knew 
She understood : she had supposed, in- 
deed. 
That, as one stops a hole upon a flute. 
At which a new note comes and shapes 

the tune. 
Excluding her would bring a worthier 

in. 
And, long ere this, that Lady Waldemar 
He loved so ' . . 

' Loved,' I started, — ' loved her so ! 
Now tell me ' . , 

' I will tell you,' she replied : 
'But since we're taking oaths, you'll 

promise first 
That he in England, he, shall never 

learn 
In what a dreadful trap his creature 

here, 
Round whose unworthy neck he had 

meant to fie 
The honourable ribbon of his name. 
Fell unaware and came to butchery ; 
Became, — I know him, — as he takes to 

he.irt 
The grief of every stranger, he's not 

like 
To banish mine as far as I could choose 
In wishmg him most happy. Now he 

leaves 
To tliink of me, perverse, who went my 

way, 
Unkind, and left him, — but if once he 

knew . . 
Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel 

wrong 
Would fasten me forever in his sight. 
Like some poor curious bird, through 
each spread wing 



Nailed high up over a fierce hunter's 

fire. 
To spoil the dinner of all tenderer folk 
Come in by chance. Nay, since your 

Marian's dead. 
You shall not hang her up, but dig a 

hole 
And bury her in silence ! ring no bells.' 

I answered gaily, though my wliole 

voice wept ; 
' We'll ring the joy-bells, not the fune- 
ral-bells. 
Because we have her back, dead or 

alive.' 
She never answered that, but shook her 

head ; 
Then low and calm, as one who, safe in 

heaven. 
Shall tell a story of his lower life, 
Unmoved by shame or anger, — so she 

spoke. 
She told me she had loved upon her 

knees. 
As others pray, more perfectly absorbed 
In the act and inspiration. She felt his 
For just his uses, not her own at all. 
His stool, to sit on or put up his foot, 
His cup, to fill wuh wine or vinegar. 
Whichever drink might please him at 

the chance. 
For that should please her always: let 

him write 
His name upon her. . it seemed natural ; 
It was most precious, .standing on his 

shelf. 
To wait until he chose to lift his hand. 
Well, well, — I saw her then, and must 

have seen 
How bright her life went floating on her 

love, 
Like wicks the housewives send afloat 

on oil 
Which feeds them to a flame that lasts 

the night. 

To do good seemed so much his busi- 
ness. 
That, having done it, she was fain to 

think. 
Must fill up his capacity for joy 
At first she never mooted with herself 
If he was happy, since he made her st^ 



AURORA LEIGH. 



433 



Or if he loved her, being so much be- 
loved : 

Who thinks of asking if the sun is light, 

Observnig that it lightens? who's so 
bold, 

I'o question God of His felicity ? 

Still less. And thus she took for granted 
first. 

What first of all she should have put to 
proof. 

And sinned against him so, but only so. 

' What could you hope,' she said, ' of 
such as she t 

You take a kid you like, and turn it out 

In some fair garden ; though the crea- 
ture's fond 

And gentle, it will leap upon the beds 

And break your tulips, bite your tender 
trees : 

The wonder would be if such innocence 

Spoiled less. A garden is no place for 
kids.' 

And, by degrees, when he who had 

chosen her. 
Brought in his courteous and benignant 

friends 
To spend their goodness on her, which 

she took 
So very gladly, as a part of his, — 
By slow degrees it broke on her slow 

sense. 
That she too in that Eden of delight 
Was out of place, as like the silly kid. 
Still did most mischief where she meant 

most love. 
A thought enough to make a woman 

mad, 
(No beast in this but she may well go 

mad) 
That saying ' 1 am thine to love and use ' 
May blow the plague in her protesting 

breath 
To the very man for whom she claims to 

die, — 
That, clinging round his neck, she pulls 

him down 
And drowns him, — and that, lavishing 

her soul. 
She hales perdition on him. ' So, being 

mad,' 
Said Marian . . 

' Ah — who stirred such thoughts, you 

ask? 



Whose fault it was, that she should have 

such thoughts? 
None's fault, none's fault. The light 

comes, and we see : 
But if It were not truly (or our eyes. 
There would be nothing seen, for all the 

light ; 
And so with Marian. If she saw at last. 
The .sense was in her, — Lady Waldemar 
Had spoken all in vain else.' 

' O my heart, 
O prophet in my heart,' I cried aloud, 
' Then Lady Waldemar spoke I' 

' Vieishe speak,' 
Mused Marian softly — • or did she only 

sign ? 
Or did she put a word into her face 
And look, and so impress you with the 

word ? 
Or leave it in the foldings of her gown. 
Like rosemary smells, a movement will 

shake out 
When no one's conscious? who shall say 

or guess ? 
One thing alone was certain,^ — from the 

day 
The gracious lady paid a visit first. 
She, Marian, saw things different, — felt 

distrust 
Of all that sheltering roof of circum- 
stance 
Her hopes were building into with clay 

nests : 
Her heart was restless, pacing up and 

down 
And fluttering, like dumb creatures be- 
fore the storms. 
Not knowing wherefore she was ill at 

ease.' 
'And still the lady came, ' said Marian 

Erie, 
' Much oftener than /le knew it. Mister 

Leigh. 
She bade me never tell him she had 

come. 
She liked to love me better than he 

knew, 
So very kind was Lady Waldemar : 
And every time she brought with her 

more light. 
And every light made sorrow clearer . . 

Well, 
Ah, well I we cannot give her blame for 

that; 



434 



AURORA LEI GIL 



'Twould be the same tiling if an angel 

came. 
Whose right should prove our wrong. 

And every time 
The lady came, she looked more beau- 
tiful. 
And spoke more like a flute among green 

trees. 
Until at last, as one, whose heart being 

sad 
On hearing lovely music, suddenly 
Dissolves in weeping, I brake out in 

tears 
Before her . . asked her counsel . . ' had 

I erred 
• In being too happy '! would she set me 

straight ? 
' For she, being wise and good and born 

above 
' The flats I had never climbed from, 

could perceive 
" If such as I might grow upon the hills; 
' And whether such poor herb sufficed to 

grow 
' For Romney Leigh to break his fast 

upon't, — 
'Or would he pine on such, or haply 

starve V 
She wrapt me in her generous arms at 

once. 
And let me dream a moment how it 

feels 
To have a real mother, like some girls : 
But 'vhen I looked, her face was young- 
er . . ay, 
Youth's too bright not to be a little 

hard. 
And beauty keeps itself still uppermost, 
1'hat's true ! — though Lady Waldemar 

was kmd. 
She hurt me, hurt as if the morning-sun 
Should smite us on the eyelids when we 

sleep. 
And wake us up with headache. Ay, 

and soon 
Was light enou h to make my heart 

ache loo : 
She told me truths I asked for . . 'twas 

my fault . . 
'That Romney could not love me if he 

would, 
' As men call loving ; there are bloods 

that flow 
'Together like some rivers and not mix. 



' Througli contraries of nature. He in. 

deed 
' Was set to wed me, to espouse my clas.s, 
'Act out a rash opinion, — and, once 

wed, 
'So just a man and gentle could not 

choose 
' But make my life as smooth as mar- 
riage-ring, 
' Bespeak me mildly, keep me .a cheer- 
ful house, 
' With servants, brooches, all the flowers 

I liked. 
And pretty dresses, silk the whole year 

round ' . . 
At which I stopped her, — ' This for me. 

And now 
' For him.' — She hesitated, — truth grew 

hard ; 
She owned, ' 'Twas plain a man like 

Romney Leigh 
' Required a wife more level to himself. 
' If day by day he had to bend his 

height 
'To pick up sympathies, opinions, 

thoughts, 
' And interchange the common talk of 

life 
' Which helps a man to live as well as 

talk, 
' His days were heavily taxed. Who 

buys a staffs 
' To fit the hand, that reaches but the 

knee ? 
' He'd feel it bitter to be forced to mis;? 
' The perfect joy of married suited pairs, 
' Who bursting through the separating 

hedge 
' Of personal dues with that sweet eglan- 
tine 
' Of equal love, keep saying, ' So 7ue 

think. 
''It strikes us. — that's our fancy." — 

When I asked 
If earnest will, devoted love, employed 
In youth like mine, would fail to raise 

me up. 
As two strong arms will alway.s raise a 

child 
To a fruit hung overhead ? she sighed 

and sighed . . 
'That could not be,' she feared. ' You 

take a pink, 
' You dig about the roots and water it. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



435 



' And so improve it to a garden -pink, 
" But will not change it to a heliotrope, 
'The kind remains. And then, the 

harder truth — 
' This Romney Leigh, so rash to leap a 

pale, 
' So bold for conscience, quick for mar- 
tyrdom, 

• Would suffer steadily and never flinch, 
' But suffer surely and keenly, when his 

class 

• Turned shoulder on him for a shameful 

match, 
'And set him up as nine-pin in their 

talk, 
' To bowl him down with jestings.' — 

There, she paused ; 
And when I used the pause in doubting 

that 
We wronged him after all in what we 

feared — 
' Suppose such things should never 

touch him more 
' In his high conscience {if the thing 

should be,) 

• Than, when the queen sits in an upper 

room, 
'The horses in the street can spatter 

•her ! '— 
A moment, hope came, — but the lady 

closed 
The door and nicked the lock and shut 

it out. 
Observing wisely that, ' the t«nder 

heart 
' Which made him over-soft to a lower 

class, 
' Would scarcely fail to make him sensi- 
tive 

• To a higher, — how they thought snd 

what they felt. 

' Alas,' alas,' said Marian, rocking slow 
The pretty baby who was near asleep. 
The eyelids creeping over the blue 

balls,— 
She made it clear, too clear — I saw the 

whole ! 
And yet who knows if I had seen my 

way 
Straight out of it by looking, though 

'twas clear, 
Unless the genetous lady, 'ware of this. 
Had set her own house all a-fire for me. 



To light me forwards ? Leaning on my 

face 
Her heavy agate eyes which crushed 

my will. 
She tola me tenderly, (as when men 

come 
To a bedside to tell people they must 

die) 
' She knew of knowledge, — ay, of 

knowledge knew, 
' That Romney Leigh had loved her for- 
merly : 
' And she loved hi»i, she might say, 

now the chance 
' Was past . . but that, of course, he 

never guessed, — 
'For something came between them . . 

something thin 
' As a cobweb . . catching every fly of 

doubt 
'To hold it buzzing at the window-pane 
' And help to dim the daylight. Ah, 

man's pride 
' Or woman's — which is greatest ? most 
, averse 
'To brushing cobwebs? Well, but she 

and he 
' Remained fast friends ; it seemed not 

more than so, 
' Because he had bound his hands and 

could not stir : 
' An honourable man, if somewhat 

rash ; 
' And she, not even for Romney, would 

she spill 
' A blot . . as little even as a tear . . 
' Upon his marriage-contract — not to 

gain 
'A better joy for two than came by 

that : 
' For, though I stood between her heart 

and heaven, 
'She loved me wholly." 

Did I laugh or curse ? 
I think I sate there silent, hearing all, 
Ay, hearing double, — Marian's talt, at 

once, 
And Romney's marriage-vow, ' I'll keep 

to THEE,' 
Which means that woman-serpent. Is 

it time 
For church now ? 

' Lady Waldemr.r spcke more.' 
Continued Marian, "but as when a ioul 



436 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Will pass out through the sweetness of 

a song 
Beyond it, voj-aging the uphill road, — 
Even so mine wandered from the thmgs 

I heard 
To those 1 suffered. It was afterward 
I shaped the resolution to the act. 
For many hours we talked. What 

need to talk ? 
The fate was clear and close ; it 

touched my eyes ; 
But still the generous lady tried to keep 
The case afloat, and would not let it go. 
And argued, struggled upon Marian's 

side, 
Which was not Romney's I though she 

little knew 
What ugly monster would take up the 

end. — 
What griping death within the drown- 
ing death 
Was ready to complete my sum of 

death.' 
I thought, — Perhaps he's sliding now 

the ring 
Upon that woman's finger. . 

She went on : 
The lady, failing to prevail her way, 
Upgathered my torn wishes from the 

ground 
And pieced them with her strong bene- 
volence ; 
And, as I thought I could breathe freer 

air 
Away from England, gomg without 

pau.se. 
Without farewell, — just breaking vvilh 

a jerk 
The blossomed offshoot from my thorny 

life, — 
She promised kindly to provide the 

means. 
With instant pas.sage to the colonies 
And full protection,' would commit me 

straight 
* To one who once had been her wait- 
ing-maid 
' And had the customs of the world, in- 
tent 
' On changing England for Australia 
' Herself to carry out her fortune so.' 
For which I thanked the Lady Waldo- 
mar, 



As men upon their death-beds thank 
last friends 

Who lay the pillow straight : it is not 
much. 

And yet 'tis all of which they arc capa- 
ble. 

This lying smoothly in a bed to die. 

And so, 'twas fixed ; — and so, from day 
to day. 

The woman named came in to visit 
me,' 

Just then, the girl stopped speaking, — 

sate erect. 
And stared at me as if I had been a 

ghost, 
(Perhaps I looked as white as any 

ghost) 
With large-eyed horror. ' Does God 

make,' she said, 
' All sorts of creatures really, do you 

think ? 
Or is it that the Devi! slavers them 
So excellently, that we come to doubt 
Who's stronger. He who makes, or he 

who mars? 
I never liked the woman's face or voice 
Or ways : it made me blush to look at 

her ; 
It made me tremble if she touched my 

hand ; 
-"Vnd when she spoke a fondling word 

1 shrank 
As if one hated me who had power to 

hurt ; 
And every time she came, my veins ran 

cold 
As somebody were walking on my 

grave. 
At last I spoke to Lady Waldemar : 
' Could such an one be good to trust ?' 

I asked. 
Whereat the lady stroked my cheek and 

laughed 
Her silver-laugh — (one must be born to 

laugh. 
To put such music in it) ' Foolish girl, 
' Your scattered wits are gathering wool 

beyond 
'The sheep-walk reaches! — leave the 

thing to me ' 
And therefore, half in trust, and half in 

scorn 
That I had heart still for another fear 



AURORA LEIGH. 



437 



In such a safe despair, I left the thing. 
' The rest is short. 1 was obedient : 
I wrote my letter which deUvered him 
From Marian to his own prosperities. 
And foUowed that bad guide. The 

lady ? — hush, 
I never blame the lady. Ladies who 
Sit high, however willing to look down. 
Will scarce see lower than their dainty 

feet : 
And Lady Waldemar saw less than \, 
With what a Devil's daughter I went 

forth 
Along the swine's road, down the preci- 
pice. 
In such a curl of hell-foam caught and 

choked. 
No shriek of soul in anguish could pierce 

through 
To fetch some help. They say there's 

help in heaven 
For all such cries. But if one cries from 

hell . . . 
What then ? — the heavens are deaf upon 

that side. 
' A woman . . hear me,^et me make it 

plain, — 
A woman . . not a monster . . both her 

breasts 
Made right to suckle babes . . she took 

me off 
A woman also, young and ignorant 
And heavy with my grief, my two poor 

eyes 
Near washed away with weeping, till 

the trees. 
The blessed unaccustomed trees and 

fields 
Ran either side the train like stranger 

dogs 
Unworthy of any notice,- — took me off, 
So dull, so blind, so only half alive. 
Not seeing by what road, nor by what 

ship, 
Nor toward what place, nor to what end 

of all. 
Men carry a corpse thus, — past the door- 
way, past 
The garden-gate, the children's play- 
ground, up 
The green lane, — then they leave it in 

the pit. 
To sleep and f.:iJ ccrri-.ption, cheek to 

cheek 



With him who stinks since Friday. 

' But snppose ; 
To go down with one's soul into the 

grave. 
To go down half dead, half alive, I say. 
And wake up with corruption, . . cheek 

to cheek 
With him who stinks since Friday 1 

There it is. 
And that's the horror oft, Miss Leigh. 

' You feel '? 
You understand? — no, do not look at 

me. 
But understand. The blank, blind, 

weary way 
Which led . . where'er it led . . away at 

least ; 
The shifted ship . . to Sydney or to 

France, 
Still bound, wherever else, to another 

land ; 
The swooning sickness on the dismal 

sea. 
The foreign shore, the shameful house, 

the night. 
The feeble blood, the heavy-headed 

grief, ... 
No need to bring their damnable drug- 
ged cup. 
And yet they brought it. Hell's so 

prodigal 
Of devil's gifts . . . hunts liberally in 

packs. 
Will kill no poor small creature of the 

wilds 
But fifty red wide throats must smoke 

at it. 
As HIS at me . . when waking up at 

last . . 
I told you that I waked up in the grave. 

' Enough so ! — it 13 plain enough so. 

True. 
We wretches cannot tell out all oi;r 

wrong 
Without offence to decent happy folk. 
I know that we must scrupulously hint 
With half-words, delicate reserves, the 

thing 
Which no one scrupled we should fee) 

in full. 
Let pass the rest, then ; only leave rny 

oath 
Upon this sleeping child — man's violence 



438 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Not man's seduction, made me what I 

am, 
As lost as . . I told him I should be lost: 
When mothers fail us, can we help our- 
selves? 
That's fatal ! — And you call it being 

lost. 
That down came next day's noon and 

caught me there 
Half gibbering and half raving on the 

floor, 
And wondering what had happened up 

in heaven. 
That suns should dare to shine when 

God himself 
Was certainly abolished. 

' I was mad. 
How many weeks, I know not, — many 

weeks. 
I think they let me go, when I was mad. 
They feared my eyes and loosed me, as 

boys might 
A mad dog which they had tortured. 

Up and down 
I went by road and village, over tracts 
Of open foreign country, large and 

strange. 
Crossed everywhere by long thin pop- 
lar-lines 
Like fingers of .some ghastly skeleton 

Hand 
Through sunlight and through moon- 
light evermore 
Pushed out from hell itself to pluck me 

back, 
And resolute to get me, slow and sure ; 
While every roadside Christ upon his 

cross 
Hung reddening through his gory 

wounds at me. 
And shook his nails in anger and came 

down 
To follow a mile after, wading up 
The low vines and green wheat, crying 

' Take the girl ! 
"She's none of mine from henceforth.' 

Then I knew 
(liut this is somewhat dimmer than the 

rest) 
The charitable peasants gave mc bread 
And leave to sleep in straw : and twice 

they tied, 
At parting, Mary's image round my 

nock — 



How heavy it seemed I as heavy as a 

stone ; 
A woman has been strangled with Icrs 

weight : 
I threw it in a ditch to keep it clean 
And ease my breath a little, when none 

looked ; 
I did not need such safeguards ; — l)ri:t.-.l 

men 
Stopped short, Miss Leigh, in insult, 

when they had seen 
My face, — I must have had an r.wf.I 

look. 
And so I lived : the weeks passed on, 

— I lived. 
'Twas living my old tramp-hfe o'rr 

again. 
But, this time, in a dream, and hunted 

round 
By some prodigious Dream-fear at my 

back. 
Which ended yet : my brain cleared 

presently 
And there I sate, one evening, by the 

road, 
I, Marian Erie, myself, alone, undone. 
Facing a sunset low upon the flats 
As if It were the finish of all time. 
The great red stone upon my sepulch-e. 
Which angels were too weak to roll 

away. 



SEVENTH BOOK. 

The woman's motive ? .shall we daub 

ourselves 
With finding roots for nettles? 'lis soft 

clay 
And easily explored. She had the 

means. 
The monies, by the lady's liberal grace. 
In trust for that Australian scheme 

and mc, 
Which so, tliat she might clutth with 

both her hands 
And chink to her naughty uses und.s- 

turbed. 
She served me (after all it w.-.s not 

.strange ; 
'Twas only what my mother wouui 

have done) 



AURORA LEIGH. 



439 



A motherly, right damnable good turn. 

' Well, after. There are nettles every- 
where. 

But smooth green grasses are more com- 
mon still ; 

The blue of heaven is larger than the 
cloud ; 

A miller's wife at Clichy took me in 

And spent her pity on me, — made me 
calm 

And merely very reasonably sad. 

She found me a servant's place in Paris, 
where 

I tried to take a c.xst-ofT life again. 

And stood as quiet as a beaten ass 

Who, having fallen through overloads, 
stands up 

To let t'nem charge him with another 
pack. 

A few months, so. My mistress, young 

p.nd light. 
Was ea.5y with me, less for kindness 

than 
Because she led, herself, an easy time 
Betwixt her lover and her looking- 

Scarce knowing which way she was 
praised the most. 

She felt so pretty and so pleased all day 

She could not take the trouble to be 
cross. 

But sometimes, as 1 stooped to tie her 
shoe. 

Would tap me softly with her slender 
foot 

Still restless with the last night's danc- 
ing in't, 

And say, ' Fie, pale-face ! are you En- 
glish girls 

' All grave and silent? mass-book still, 
and Lent ? 

' And first- communion pallor on your 
cheeks, 

' Wgrn past the time.for't? little fool, 
be gay ! ' 

At which she vanished, like a fairy, 
through 

A gap of silver laughter, 

' Came an hour 

When all went otherwise She did not 
speak. 



But clenched her brows, and clipped me 

with her eyes 
As if a viper, with a pair of tongs. 
Too far for any touch, yet near enough 
To view the writhing creature, — then at 

last, 
' Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's 

name, 
' Thou Marian ; thou'rt no reputable 

girl, 
' Although sufficient dull for twenty 

saints I 
' I think thou mock'st me and my 

house,' 
' Confess thoii'lt be .t mother in a month, 
' Thou mask of saintship.' 

' Could I answer her ? 
The light broke in so : it meant that 

then, that ? 
I had not thought of that, in all my 

thoughts. 
Through all the cold, numb aching of 

my brow, 
Through all the heaving of impatient 

life 
Which threw me on death at intervals, 

through all 
The upbreak of the fountains of my 

heart 
The rains had swelled too large : it 

could mean that ? 
Did God make mothers out of victims, 

then. 
And set such pure amens to hideous 

deeds ? 
Why not ? He overblows an ugly grave 
With violets which blossom in the 

spring. 
And / could be a mother in a month 1 
I hope it was not wicked to be glad. 
I lifted up my voice and wept, and 

laughed. 
To heaven, not her, until it tore my 

throat. 
'Confess, confess I' what was there to 

con fess, 
E.xcept man's cruelty, e.xcept my wrong 1 
E.xcept this anguish, or this ecstasy 'i 
This shame or glory ? 'I he light woman 

there 
Was small to take it in : an acorn-cup 
Would take the sea in sooner. 

" Good,' she cried ; 



440 



AURORA LETCH. 



■TJnmarrled and a mother, and she 

laughs ! 
■ Tliese unchaste girls are always impu- 
dent. 
' Get out, intriguer ? leave my house and 

trot : 
'I wonder you should look me in the 

face, 
'With such a filthy secret.' 

'Then I rolled 
My scanty bundle up and went my way. 
Washed white with weeping, shudder- 
ing head and foot 
With blmd hysteric passion, staggering 

forth 
Beyond those doors. 'Twas natural of 

course 
She should not ask me where I meant to 

sleep : 
I might sleep well beneath the heavy 

Seine, 
Like other; of my sort : the bed was laid 
For us. Bit any woman, womanly. 
Had thought of him who should be in a 

month, 
Th; sinless babe that should be in a 

month, 
And if by chance he might be warmer 

housed 
Than underneath such dreary, dripping 

eaves ' 

I broke on Marian there. ' Yet she 
herself. 

A wife, I think, had scandals of her own, 

A lover not her husband ' 

' Ay,' she said, 

' But gold and meal are measured other- 
wise ; 

I learnt so much at school,' said Marian 
Erie. 

' O crooked world,' I cried, 'ridiculous 
If not so lamentalile I It's the way 
With these light women of a thrifty 

vice. 
My Marian, — always hard upon the rent 
In any sister's virtue ! while they keep 
Their oa-m so darned and patched with 

perfidy. 
Thit, though a rag itself, it looks as well 
Acro-is a st'^e^t. in hilcnnv or cnach. 
As au' p Tfect stuff might For my 

part, 



I'd rather take the wind-side of the 

stews 
Than touch such women with my fingei > 

end I 
They top the poor street- walker by their 

lie. 
And look the better for being so much 

worse : 
The devil's most devilish when respecta- 
ble. 
But you, dear, and your story.' 

• All the rest 
Is here,' she said, and signed upon the 

child. 
' I found a mistress-sempstress who was 

kind 
And let me sew in peace among her 

girls ; 
An J what was better than to draw the 

threads 
All day and half the night for him and 

him? 
And so I lived for him, and so he lives, 
And so I know, by this time, God lives 

too ' 
She smiled beyond the sun and ended 

so, 
And all my soul rose up to take her 

part 
Against the world's successes, virtues, 

fames. 
• Come with me, sweetest sister,' I re- 
turned, 
' And sit within my house, and do me 

good 
From henceforth, thou and thine ! yc 

are my own 
From henceforth. I am lonely in the 

world. 
And thou art lonely, and the child is 

half 
An orphan. Come, — and henceforth 

thou and 1 
Being still together will not miss a friend. 
Nor he a father, since two mothers shall 
Make that up to him. I am journeying 

south. 
And in my Tuscan home I'll find a nichr: 
And set thee there, my saint, the child 

and thee, 
And burn the lights of love before thy 

fice. 
And ever i-.t thy sweet look cross my- 
self 



AURORA LEIGH. 



441 



From mixing with the world's prosperi- 
ties ; 
That so, in gravity and holy calm, 
We two may live on toward the truer 
life.' 

She looked me in the face and answered 

not, 
Nor signed she was unworthy, nor gave 

thanks, 
But took the sleeping child and held it 

out 
To meet my kiss, as if requiting me 
And trusting me at once. And thus at 

once, 
I carried him and her to where I lived ; 
bhe's there now, in the little room, 

asleep, 
I hear the soft child-breathing through 

the door ; 
And all three of us, at to-morrow's 

break. 
Pass onward, homeward, to our Italy. 
Oh, Romney Leigh, 1 have your debts 

to pay. 
And I'll be just and pay them. 

But yourself 1 
To pay your debts is scarcely difficult ; 
lb buy your life is nearly impossible, 
Being sold away to Lamia. My head 

aches ; 
I cannot see my road along this dark ; 
Nor can I creep and grope, as fits the 

dark, 
For these foot-catching robes of woman- 
hood : 
A man might walk a little . . but I !-^ 

He loves 
The Lamia-woman, — and I, write to 

him 
What stops his marriage, and destroys 

his peace. — 
Or what perhaps shall simply trouble 

him. 
Until she only need to touch hig sleeve 
With just a finger's tremulous white 

flame. 
Saying, ' Ah, — Aurora Leigh I a pretty 

tale, 
' A very pretty poet 1 I can guess 
' The motive," — then, to catch his eyes in 

hers. 
And vow she does not wonder, — and 

they two 



To break in laughter as the se.n along 
A melancholy coast, and Heat up higher. 

In such a laugh, their tatal weeds oi 

love 1 
Ay, fatal, ay. And who shall answer 
me 

Fate has not hurried tides ; and if to- 
night 

My letter would not be a night too late. 

An arrow shot into a man that's dead. 

To prove a vain- intention ; Would I 
show 

The new wife vile, to make the husband 
mad ? 

No, Lamia ! shut the shutters, bar the 
doors 

From every glimmer on thy serpent- 
skin 1 

I will not let thy hideous secret out 

To agomse the man 1 love — I mean 

The friend 1 love . . as friends love. 

It is strange. 

To-day while Marion told her story like 

To absorb most listeners, how 1 listened 
chief 

To a voice not hers, nor yet that ene- 
my's, 

Nor God's in wrath, . . but one that 
mixed with mine 

Long years ago, among the g.arden- 
treeS, 

And said to me, to me, too, ' De ray 
wife, 

Aurora.' It is strange with what a 
swell 

Yearning passion, as a snow of ghosts 

Might beat against the impervious doors 
of heaven. 

I thought, 'Now, if I had been a wo- 
man, such 

As God made women, to save men by 
love, — , 

By just my love I might have s.-wgJ 
this man. 

And made a nobler poem for the world 

Than all I have failed in.' But 1 failed 
besides 

In this ; and now he's lost ! through no 
alone ! 

And, by my only fault, his empty Iioikr 

Sucks in, at this same hour, a wind fror.i 
hell 

To keep his hearth cold, make his case- 
r.ienti creak 



44« AURORA 


LEIGH. 


Forever to the tune of plague and sin — 


The world's male chivalry has perished 


O Roirney, O my Romney, my 


out. 


friend I 


But women are knight-errant to the 


My cousin and friend 1 my helper, when 


last ; 


1 would. 


And if Cervantes had been Shakes- 


My love, that might be ! mine 1 


peare too. 


Why, how one weeps 


He had made his Don a Donna. 


When one's too weary 1 Were a wit- 


So it clears, 


ness by. 


And so we rain our skies blue. 


He'd say some folly . . that I loved the 


Put away 


man. 


This weakness. If, as I have just now 


Who knows? . . and make me laugh 


said. 


again for scorn. 


A man's within me, — let him act him- 


At strongest, women are as weak in 


self. 


flesh. 


Ignoring the poor conscious trouble of 


As men, at weakest, vilest, are in soul : 


blood 


So, hard for women to keep pace with 


That's called the woman merely. I will 


men 1 


write 


As well give up at once, sit down at 


Plain words to England. — if too late, too 


once. 


late. 


And weep as I do. Tears, tears I why 


If ill-accounted, then accounted ill ; 


we weep ? 


We'll trust the heavens with something. 


'Tis worth inquiry? — That we've shamed 




a life. 


' Dear Lord Howe 


Or lost a love, or missed a world, per- 


You'll find a story on another leaf 


haps ? 


Of Marion Erie, — what noble .friend of 


By no means. Simply, that we've 


yours 


walked too far, 


She trusted once, through what flagi- 


Or tilked too much, or felt the wind i' 


tious means 


the east, — 


To what disastrous ends ; — the story's 


And so we weep, as if both body and 


true. 


soul 


I found her wandering on the Paris 


Broke up in water — this way. 


quays. 


Poor mixed rags 


A babe upon her breast, — unnatural 


Forsooth we're made of, like those 


Unseasonable outcast on such snow 


other dolls 


Unthawed to this time. I will ta.\ in this 


That lean with pretty faces into fairs. 


Vour friendship, friend, — if that con- 


It seems :is if I had a man in me, 


victed She 


Despising such a woman. 


Be not his wife yet, to denounce the 


Yet indeed. 


facts 


To see a wrong or suffering moves us all 


To himself, — but, otherwise, to let thcin 


To undo it, though we should undo our- 


pass 


selves ; 


On tip-toe like escaping murderers. 


Ay, all tlie more, that we undo our- 


And tell my cousin merely — Marian 


selves ; 


lives. 


That's womanly, past doubt, and not ill- 


Is found, and finds her home with such 


moved. 


a friend. 


A natural movement therefore, on my 


Myself. Aurora. Which good news. 


part. 


'She's found,' 


To fill the chair up of my cousin's wife. 


Will help to make him merry in his love: 


And save him from a devil's company ! 


I send it. tell him, for my marriage gift, 


We're all so. — made so, — 'tis our wo- 


As good as orange water for the nerves. 


man's trade 


Or perfumed gloves for headaches, — 


To suffer torment for another's ease. 


though aware 



AU.-^O.-^A LEIGH. 



Triii '.e, except of love, is scarcely sick: 
i m';a.i the new love this time, . . since 

!;tst year. 
Such q.iiok forgetting on the part of 

men ! 
Is any shrewder trick upon the cards 
X^ enr.c'i them ? pray instruct me how 

'tis done. 
First, clubs, — and while you look at 

clubs, 'tis spades ; 
Th.it's prodigy. The lightning strikes a 

man. 
And when we think to find him dead 

and charred . . 
Why, there he is on a sudden, playing 

pipes 
Beneath the splintered elm-tree I Crime 

and shame 
And all their hoggery trample your 

smooth world, 
Nor leave more foot-marks than Apollo's 

kine, 
Whose hoofs were muffled by the thiev- 
ing god 
In tamarisk-leives and myrtle. I'm so 

sad. 
So weary and sad to-night, I'm some- 
what sour, — 
Forgive me. To be blue and shrew at 

once, 
E.xceeds all toleration except yours ; 
But yours, I know, is infinite. Fare- 
well. 
To-morrow we take train for Italy. 
Speak gently of me to your gracioas 

wife. 
As one, however far. shall yet be near 
In loving wishes to your house.' 

I sign. 
And now I loo^^e my heart upon a page, 
■|-his— 

' Lady Waldemar, I'm very glad 
I never liked you ; which you knew so 

well 
You sp.ared me, in your turn, to like me 

much. 
Your liking surely had done worse for 

me 
Than has your loathing, though the last 

appears 
Sufficiently unscrupulous to hurt. 
And not afraid of judgment. Now, 

there's space 
Between our faces, — I stand off, as if 



I judged a stranger's portrait and pm- 

nounced 
Indifferently the type was good or ba J ; 
Wh.it matter to me that the lines are 

false, 
I ask you ? Did I ever ink my lips 
By drawing your name through them as 

a friend's. 
Or touch your hands as lovers do ? 

thank God 
I never did : and, since you're proved 

so vile. 
Ay, vile, I say, — we'll show it presently, 
I'm not obliged to nurse my friend in 

you. 
Or wash out my own blots, in coimting 

yours. 
Or even excuse myself to honest souls 
Who seek to touch my lip or clasp my 

palm, — 
' Alas, but Lady Waldemar came first !' 
'Tis true, by this time you may near me 

so 
That you're my cousin's wife. You've 

gambled deep 
As Lucifer, and won the morning-star 
In that case, — and the noble house of 

Leigh 
Must henceforth with its good roof shel- 
ter you : 
I cannot speak and burn you up between 
Those rafters. I who am born a Leigh, — 

nor speak 
And pierce your brea.st through Rom- 

ney's, I who live 
His friend and cousin ! — so, you're safe. 

You two 
Must grow together like the tares and 

wheat 
Till God's great fire. — But make the 

best of time 

' And hide this letter ! let it speak no 
more 

Than I shall, how you tricked poor 
Marian Erie, 

And set her own love digging her own 
grave 

Within her green hope's pretty garden- 
ground ; 

Ay, sent her forth with some one of 
your sort 

To a wicked house in France, — from 
which she fled 



444 AUKORA 


LEIGH. 


Vv'ith curses in her eyes and cars and 


I charge you be liis faithfid and true 


throat. 


wife! 


Her whole soul choked with curses, — 


Keep warm his hearth and clean his 


mad in short. 


board, and, when 


And madly scouring up and down for 


He spe.iks, be quick with your obedi- 


weeks 


ence ; 


The foreign hedgeless country, lone and 


Still grind your paltry wants and low 


lost,— 


desires 


So innocent, male-fiends might slink 


To dust beneath his heel ; though even 


within 


thus. 


Remote hell-corners, seeing her so de- 


The ground must hurt him, — '.t was writ 


filed. 


of old. 




* Ye shall not yoke together ox and 


' Piut vou, — you are a woman and mor : 


ass,' 


bold. _ 


The nobler and ignobler. Ay, but you 


To do you justice, you'd not shrink to 


Shall do your part as well as such ill 


face . . 


things 


V/e'U say the unfledged life in the other 


Can do aught good. You shall not vex 


room. 


him, — mark. 


Which, treading down God's corn, you 


You shall not vex him . . jar him when 


trod ill sight 


he's sad, 


Of all the dogs, in reach of all the 


Or cross him when he's eager. Under" 


guns, — 


stand 


Ay, Marian's babe, her poor unfathered 


To trick him with apparent sympathies. 


child, 


Nor let him see thee in the face too 


Her yearling babe I — you'd face him 


near 


when he wakes 


And unlearn thy sweet seeming. Pay 


And opens up his wonderful blue eyes : 


the price 


You'd meet thera and not wink perhaps. 


Of lies, by being constrained to lie on 


nor fear 


still : 


God's triumoh in them and supreme 


'Tis easy for thy sort : a million more 


revenge. 


Will scarcely damn thee deeper. 


When righting His creation's balance- 


' Doing which 


scale 


You are very s.afe from Marian and my- 


(You pulled as low as Tophet) to the 


self ; 


top 


We'll breathe as softly as the infant 


Of most celestial innocence. For me 


here. 


Who am not as bold, I own those mfant 


And stir no dangerous embers. Fail a 


eyes 


point, 


Have set me praying. 


And show our Romney wounded, ill- 


' \Vhile they look at heaven. 


content. 


No need of protestation in my words 


Tormented in his home, . . we open 


Against the place you've made them ! 


mouth. 


let them look I 


And such a noise will follow the last 


They'll do your business with the heav- 


trump's 


ens, be sure : 


Will scarcely seem more dreadful, even 


I spare you common curses. 


to you ; 


'Ponder this. 


You'll have no pipers after : Romney 


If haply you're the wife of Romney 


will 


Leigh, 


(I know him) push you forth as none of 


(For which inheritance beyond your 


his. 


birth 


All other men declaring it well done : 


You sold that poisonous porridge called 


While women, even the worst, your 


your soul) 


like, will draw 



AURORA 


ucicn. 445 


Their skirts back, not to brush you in 


(As one who laughs and cannot stop 


the street ; 


himself) 


AaJ so I warn you. I'm . . . Aurora 


All clanking at me, in me. over me, 


Leigh.' 


Until I shrieked a shriek I could not 




hear. 


The letter written, I felt satisfied. 


And swooned with noise, — but still. 


• The ashes smouldering in me, were 


along my swoon. 


thrown out 


Was 'ware the baffled changes back- ^ 


By handfuls from me : I had writ my 


ward rang, 


heart 


Prepared, at each emerging sen.se, to 


And wept my tears, and now was cool 


beat 


and calm ; 


And crash it out with clangour. I was 


And, going straightway to the neigh- 


weak ; 


bouring room. 


I struggled for the posture of my soul 


I lifted up the curtains of the bed 


In upright consciousness of place and 


Where Marian Erie, the babe upon her 


tune, 


arm, 


But evermore, 'twixt waking and asleep. 


Both faces leaned together like a pair 


Slipped somehow, staggered, caught at 


Of folded innocences, self-complete, 


Marian's eyes 


Each smiling from the other, smiled 


A moment, (it is very good for .strength 


and slept. 


To know that some one needs you to be 


There seemed no sin, no shame, no 


stron.5) 


wrath, no grief 


And so lecovered what 1 called myself. 


I felt she too had spoken words that 


For that time. 


night. 


I just knew it when we swept 


But softer certainly, and said to God, 


Above the old roof of Dijon. Lyons 


Who laughs in heaven perhaps that such 


dropped 


as I 


A spark into the night, half trodden out 


Should make ado for such as she. — ' De- 


Unseen But presently the winding 


filed ' 


Rhone 


I wrote? 'defiled' I thought her? 


Washed out the moonlight large along 


Stoop, 


his banks. 


Stoop lower, Aurora ! get the angels' 


Which strained their yielding curves 


leave 


out clear and clean 


To creep in somewhere, humbly, on 


To hold it. — .shadow of town and castle 


your knees. 


blurred 


Within this round of .sequestration 


Upon the hurrying river. Such an air 


white 


Blew thence upon the forehead, — half an 


In which they have wrapt earth's found- 


air 


lings, heaven's elect. 


And half a water, — that I leaned and 




looked ; 


The next day we took train to Italy 


Then, turning back on Marian, smiled to 


And fled on southward in the roar of 


mark 


steam. 


That she looked only on her child, who ■ 


The marriage-bells of Romney must be 


slept. 


loud, 


His face toward the moon too. 


To sound so clear through all. I was 


So we passed 


not well ; 


The liberal open country and the close. 


And truly, though the truth is like a 


And shot through tunnels, like a light- 


jest. 


ning-wedge 


I could not choose but fancy, half the 


By great Thor-hammers driven through 


way, 


the rock. 


J stood alone i' the belfry, fifty bells 


Which, quivering through the intestine 


Of naked iron, mad with merriment. 


blackness, splits. 



446 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And lets it in at once : the train swept 
in 

Athrob with effort, trembling with re- 
solve, 

The fierce denouncing whistle wailing 
on 

And dying off smothered in the shud- 
dermg dark. 

While we, self-awed, drew troubled 
breath, oppressed 

As other Titans underneath the pile 

And nightmare of the mountains. Out, 
at last. 

To catch the dawn afloat upon the 
land ! 

— Hills, slung forth broadly and gauntly 
everywhere. 

Not crampt in their foundations, pushing 
wide 

Rich outspreads of the vineyards and 
the corn, 

(As if they entertained i' the name of 
France) 

While, down their straining sides, 
streamed manifest 

A soil as red as Charlemagne's knightly 
blood. 

To consecrate the verdure. Some one 
■^ said 

• Marseilles ! ' And lo, the city of Mar- 
seilles, 

With all her ships behind her, and be- 
yond. 

The sc mitar of ever-shining sea 

For right-hand use, bared blue against 
the sky ! 

That night we spent between the purple 

heaven 
And purple water : I think Marian 

slept ; 
But I, as a dog a-watch for his master's 

foot. 
Who cannot sleep or eat before he 

hears, 
I sate upon the deck and watched the 

night. 
And listened through the stars for Italy. 
Those marriage-bells I spoke of, sounded 

far. 
As some child's go-cart in the street be- 
neath 
To a (lying man who will not pa.s.s the 

day, 



And knows it, holding by a hanil lie 

loves. 
I too sate quiet, satisfied with death. 
Sate silent : I could hear my own soul 

speak. 
And had my friend, — for Nature comes 

sometimes 
And says, ' 1 am ambassador for God.' 
I felt the wind soft from the land of 

souls ; 
The old miraculous mountains heaved IP. 

sight. 
One straining past another along the 

shore. 
The way of gmnd dull Odyssean ghosts 
Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of 

seas 
And stare on voyagers. Peak pushing 

peak 
They stood : I watched beyond that 

Tyrian belt 
Of intense sea betwixt them and t^e 

ship, 
Dpwn all their sides the misty olive- 
woods 
Dissolving in the weak congenial moon. 
And still"disclosing some brown convent- 
tower 
That seems as if it grew from some 

brown rock. 
Or many a little lighted village, dropt 
Like a fallen star, upon so high a point. 
You wonder what can keep it in i<s 

place 
From slidmg headlong with the water- 
falls 
Which powder all the myrtle and orange 

groves 
With spray of silver. Thus my Italy 
Was stealing on us. Genoa broke with 

day ; 
The Doria's long pale palace striking 

out. 
From green hills in advance of the white 

town, 
A marble finger dominant to ships. 
Seen glimmering through the uncertain 

gray of dawn. 

And then 1 did not think, ' my Itrdy,' 
I thought, ' my father !' O my father's 

house. 
Without his presence ! — Places are too 

much 



AU'RORA LEIGH. 



447 



Or else too little, for immortal man ; 

'J oo little, when love's May o'ergrows 
the ground, — 

Too much, when that luxuriant robe of 
green 

Is rustling to our ankles in dead leaves. 

'Tis only good to be or here or there, 

Because we had a dream on such a stone. 

Or this or that, — but, once being wholly 
waked, 

And come back to the stone without a 
dream, 

We trip upon't, — alas! and hurt our- 
selves ; 

Or else it falls on us and grinds us flat. 

The heaviest grave-stone on this bury- 
ing earth. 

— But while I stood and mused, a quiet 
touch 

Fell light upon my arm, and, turning 
round, 

A pair of moistened eyes convicted 
mine. 

' What, Marian ! is the babe astir so 
soon V 

' He sleeps,' she answered ; ' I have 
crept up thrice. 

And seen you sitting, standing, still at 
watch. 

I thought It did you good till now, but 
now' . . . 

' But now,' I said, ' you leave the child 
alone.' 

' And you're alone,' she answered, — and 
she looked 

As if I too were something. Sweet the 
help • 

Of one we have helped I Thanks, Ma- 
rian, for such help. 

I found a house at Florence on the hill 
Of Hellosguardo. 'Tis a tower that 

keeps 
\ post o! double-observation o'er 
The valley of Arno (holding .as a hand 
The outspread city) straight toward Fic- 

sole 
And Mount Morello and the setting sun, 
The Vallombrosan mountains opposite. 
Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups 
Turned red to the brim because their 

wine was red. 
ISo sun could die nor yet be born unseen 
By dwellers at my villa : morn and eve 



Were magnified before us in the pure 
Illinntable sp.ice and pause of sky. 
Intense as angels' garments blanched 

with God, 
Less blue and radiant. From the outer 

wall 
Of the garden, drops the mystic floating 

Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green 
From maize and vine) until 'tis caught 

and torn 
Upon the abrupt black line of cypresses 
Which signs the way to Florence. Beau- 
tiful 
The city lies along the ample vale. 
Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and 

street. 
The river trailing like a silver cord 
Ihrough all, and curling loosely, both 

before 
And after, over the broad stretch of land 
Sown whitely up and down its opposite 

slopes 
With farm and villas. 

Many weeks had passed. 
No word was granted. — Last, a letter 

came 
Fi-om Vincent Carrington : — ' My dear 

Miss Leigh, 
You've been as silent as a poet should. 
When any other man is sure to speak. 
If sick, if vexed, if dumb, a silver-piece 
Will split a man's tongue, — straight he 

speaks and says, 
' Received that cheque.' But you ! . . 

I send you funds 
To Paris, and you make no sign r.t all. 
Remember I'm responsible and wait 
A sign of you. Miss Leigh. 

' Meantiiiie your book 
Is eloquent as if you were not dumb ; 
And common critics, ordinarily deaf 
To such fine meanings, and, like deaf 

men, loth 
To seem deaf, .answering chance-wise, 

yes or no, 
'It must be.' or 'it must not,' (most 

pronounced 
When least convinced) pronounced for 

once aright : 
You'd think they really heard, — and so 

they do . . 
The burr of three or four who really 

hear 



448 



AURORA LEICII. 



And praise your book .iright ; Fame's 

■ smallest trump 
l.i a great car-trumpet for the deaf as 

lio^ts, 
No other bchij cfTective. Fear not, 

friend ; 
We think lierc you liave written a good 

book, 
And yon, a woman ! It wa^ in you — yes, 
I felt 'twas in you : yet I doubted half 
If that od-force of German Rcichen- 

bach 
Which still from female finger-tips burns 

blue. 
Could strike out as our masculine white 

heats, 
To quicken a man. Forgive me. All 

my heart 
Is quick withyourssince, just a fortnight 

since, 
I read your book and loved it. 

' Will yon love 
My wife, too? Here's my secret I might 

keep 
A month more from you ! but I yield it 

up 
Because I know you'll wri':e the sooner 

for't. 
Most women (of your height even) 

cotmtnig love 
Life's ouly serioiLs business. Who'.smy 

wife 
That shall be m a month ? you ask ? nor 

guess ? 
Remember what a pair of topaz eyes 
You once detected, turned against the 

wall, 
That morning in my London painting- 
room ; 
The face half-sketched, and slurred ; 

the eyes alone ! 
But yo'i . . you caught them up with 

yours, and said 
'Kate Ward's eyes, surely.' — Now, I 

own the truth, 
I had thrown them there to keep them 

safe from Jove : 
They would so naughtily find out their 

way 
To both the heads of both my Danaes, 
Where just it made me mad to look at 

them. 
Such eyes 1 I could not paint or think of 
eyes 



I But those, — and .so I flung them into 

paint 
And turned them to the wall's care. 

Ay, but now ^ 

I've let them out, my Kate's : I've 

painted her, 
(I'll change my style, and leave mytho- 
logies) 
The whole sweet face ; it looks upon 

my soul 
Like a face on water, to beget itself, 
A half-length portrait,in a hanguig cloak 
Like one you wore once ; 'lis a little 

frayed ; 
I pressed too for the nude harmonious 

arm — 

But she . . she'd have her way, and have 

her cloak ; 
She said she could be like you only so. 
And would not miss the fortune. Ah, 

my friend, 
You'll write and say she shall not miss 

your love 
Through meetinc;; mine? in faith, .she 

would not change : 
She has your books by heart more than 

my words. 
And quotes you up against me till I'm 

pushed 
Where, three months since, her eyes 

were : nay, in fact. 
Nought satisfied her but to make me 

paint 
Your last book folded i.i her dimpled 

hands 
Instead of my brown . palette, as I 

wished. 
And, granted me, ;he presentment had 

been newer ; 
She'd grant me nothing : I've com- 
pounded for 
The naming of the wedding-day next 

mouth. 
And gladly too. 'Tis pretty, to remark 
How women can love women of your 

sort. 
And tie their hearts with love-knots to 

your feet. 
Grow insolent about you .against men. 
And pit n; down by putting in the lip, 
As if a man, — there <t re such, let us own, 
Who write not ill, — remains a man, poor 

wretch, 



AURORA LEIGir. 



449 



While you— — ! Write weaker than 

Aurora Leigh, 
And there'll be women who believe of 

you 
(Besides my Kate) that if you walked on 

sand 
You would not leave a foot-print. 

' Are you put 
To wonder by my marriage, like poor 

Leigh ■? 
' Kate Ward !' he said. ' Kate Ward I' 

he said anew. 
' I thought . . . ' he said, and stopped,— 

' 1 did not ihmk . . . ' 
And then he dropped to silence. 

' Ah, he's changed. 
I had not seen him, you're aware, for 

long. 
But went of course. I have not touched 

on this 
Through all this letter.— conscious of 

your heart. 
And writing lightlier for the heavy fact, 
As clocks are voluble with lead. 

' How poor, 
To say I'm sorry. Dear Leigh, dearest 

Leigh 1 
In those old days of Shropshire, — pardon 

me, — 
When he .ind you fought many a field 

of gold 
On what you should do, or you should 

not do. 
Make bread or verses, (it j.ist came to 

that) 
1 thought you'd one day draw a silken 

peace 
Through a golden ring. I thought so. 

Foolishly, 
The event proved, — for you went more 

opposite 
To each other, month by month, and 

year by year. 
Until this happened. God knows best, 

we say. 
But hoarsely. When the fever took him 

first. 
Just after I had writ to you in France, 
They tell mo Lady Waldemar mixed 

drinks 
And counted grains, like any sal.aried 

nurse. 
Excepting that she wept too. Then 

Lord Howe, 



You're right about Lord Howe, Lord 

Howe's a trump ; 
And yet, with such in his hand, a man 

like Leigh 
May lo.-^e, as lie does. There's an end to 

all,— 
Yes, even this letter, though this second 

sheet 
May find you doubtful. Write a word 

for Kate : 
She reads my letters always, like a wife. 
And It she sees her name, I'll see her 

smile 
■And sh.ire the luck. So, bless you, 

friend of two ! 
I will not ask you what your feeling is 
At Florence with my pictures. 1 can liear 
\'our heart a-flutter over the show-hills : 
And, just to pace the Pitti with you 

once, 
I'd give a half-hour of to-morrow's walk 
With Kate . . 1 think so. Vincent Car- 

rington. 

The noon was hot ; the air scorched like 

the sun 
And was shut out. The closed persiani 

threw 
Their long-scored shadows on my viila- 

floor. 
And interlined the golden atmosphere 
Straight, still, — across the pictures on the 

wall 
The statuette on the console, (of youn^ 

Love 
And P>yche made one marble by akis^;) 
The low cbuch where I leaned, the tablo 

near, 
The vase of lilies Marian pulled la: t 

night 
(Each green leaf and each white Icr.f 

ruled in black 
As if for writing some new text of f.ite^ 
And the open letter, rested on my kner. 
But there, the lines swerved, trembled, 

though I sate 
Untroubled . . plainly, . . readinj '.\ 

again 
And three times. Well, he's married ; 

that is clear. 
No wonder tliat he's married, nor much 

more 
That Vincent's therefore 'sorry.' Why, 

of course, 



4 so 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The lady nursed him wheij he was not 

well, 
Mixed drinks, — unless nepenthe was ihe 

drink 
'Twas scarce worth telling. I'.ut a man 

in love 
Will see the whole sex in his mistress' 

hood. 
The prettier for its lining of fair rose ; 
Althongh he catches back and says at 

last. 
' I m sorry.' Sorry. Lady Waldemar 
At prettiest, under the said hood, pre- 
served 
From such a light as I could hold to her 

face 
To flare its tigly wrinkles out to shame, 
Is scarce a wife for Romney, as friends 

judge, 
Aurora Leigh, or Vincent Carrington, 
That's plain. And if he's 'conscious of 

my heart' . . 
It may 1)0 natural, though the phrase is 

strong ; 
(One's apt to use strong phrases, being 

in love) 
And even that stuff of ' fields of gold.' 

•gold rings,' 
And what he ' thought,' poor Vincent I 

what he ' thought,' 
May never mean enough to ruffle me. 
. — Why, this room stifles. Better burn 

than choke : 
Best have air. air, although it comes with 

fire. 
Throw open blinds and windows to the 

noon 
And take a bh?ter on my brow instead 
Of this dead weight ! best, perfectly be 

stunned 
By those in-ufferable cicale, sick 
And hoarse with rapture of the summer 

heat. 
That sing like poets, till their hearts 

break, . . sing 
Till men say, ' It's too tedious.' 

Books succeed. 
And lives fail. Do I feel it so, at last ? 
Kate loves a worn-out cloak for being 

like mine. 
While I live self-despised for being my- 
self. 
And ycai-n toward some one else, who 

yearns away 



From what he is, in his turn. Strain a 

step 
For ever, yet gain no step "i Arc we 

such. 
We cannot, with our admirations even. 
Our tip-toe aspirations, touch a thing 
That's higher than we ? is all a dismal 

flat, 
And God alone above each, — .is the sim 
O'er level lagunes, to make them shine 

and stink, — 
Laying stress upon us with immediate 

flame. 
While we respond with our miasmal fog. 
And call it moimting higher because we 

grow 
More highly fatal? 

Tush, Aurora Leigh ! 
Yon wear your sackcloth looped in 

Caesar's way. 
And brag your failings as mankind's. Be 

-still. 
There is what's higher, in this very 

world. 
Than you can live, or catch at. Stand 

aside. 
And look at others — instance little Kate I 
She'll make a perfect wife for Carrington. 
She always has been looking round the 

earth 
For .something good and green to alight 

upon 
And nestle into, with those soft-winged 

eyes 
Subsiding now beneath his manly hand 
'Twixt trembling lids of inexpressive 

joy : 
I will not scorn her, after all, too much. 
That so much she should love me. A 

wise man 
Can pluck a leaf, and find a lecture in't ; 
And I, too, . . God has made me, — I've 

a heart 
That's capable of worship, love and loss ; 
We say the .same of Shakspeare's. I'll 

be meek. 
And learn to reverence, even this poor 

myself. 

The book, too — pass it. ' A good book,' 

says he, 
' And you a woman.' I had laughed :'.t 

that. 
But long since. I'm a woman,— it is true : 



AURORA LEIGH. 



451 



Alas, and woe to us, when we feel it 

most ! 
Then, least care have we for the crowns 

and goals 
And compliments on writing our good 

books. 

The book has some truth in it, I believe ; 
And truth outlives pain, as the soul does 

life. 
I know we talk our Phsedons to the end 
Through all the dismal faces that wc 

make, 
O'er-wrinkled with dishonoring agony 
From decomposing drugs. I have writ- 
ten truth. 
And 1 a woman ; feebly, partially. 
Inaptly i:i presentation, Romney'U add,^ 
Because a woman. For tiie truth itself. 
That's neither man's nor woman's, but 

just God's ; 
None else has reason to be proud of 

truth : 
Himself will see it sifted, disenthralled. 
And kept upon the height and in the 

light. 
As far as and no farther than 'tis truth ; 
For, — now He has left o.T calling firma- 
ments 
And strata, flowers and creatures, very 

good. 
He siys It still of truth, wliic'.i is His 
own, 

Trntli, sj far, ia my book ; — .he truth 

which draws 
Through all things upwards ; th.at a two- 
fold world 
Must go to a perfect cosmos. Natural 

things 
And spiritual. — who separates those two 
In art, in morals, or the social drift. 
Tears up the bond of nature and brings 

death. 
Paints futile picture?,write3 unreal verse. 
Leads vulgar days, deals ignorantly 

with men. 
Is wrong, in short, at all pointc. V/c 

divide 
This apple of life, and cut it through 

the pips,— 
The perfect round which fitted Venus' 

hand 
Has perished as utterly as if we ate 



lioth halves. Without the spiritual, ob- 
serve. 
The natural's impossible ; no form. 
No motion! Without sensuous, spirit- 
ual 
Is inappreciable ; — no beauty or power : 
And in this twofold sphere the twofold 

man 
(And still the artist is intensely a man) 
Holds firmly by the natural, to reach 
T'he spiritual beyond it, — fixes still 
The type with mortal vision, to pierce 

through. 
With eyes immortal, to the antetype 
Soine call the ideal, — better called the 

real, 
And certain to be called .so presently 
When things shall have their names. 

Look long enough 
On any peasant's face here, coarse and 

lined, 
You'll catch Antinous somewhere in that 

clay, 
As perfect featured as he yearns at 

Rome 
From marble pale with beauty ; then 

persist. 
And, if your apprehension's competent. 
You'll find some fairer angel at his back, 
As much e.\ceeding him as he the boor. 
And pushing him with imperial disdain 
For ever out of sight. Ay, Carrington 
L glad of such a creed : an artist must. 
Who paints a tree, a leaf, a common 

stone, 
With just his hand, and finds it sud- 
denly 
Apiece with and conterminous to his 

soul. 
Why else do these things move him, 

leaf or stone ? 
The bird's not moved, that pecks at a 

spring-shoot ; 
Nor yet the horse before a quarry 

a-graze : 
Cut man. the two-fold creature, appre- 
hends 
The two-fold manner, in and outwardly, 
And nothing in the world comes single 

to him, 
A mere itself, — cup, column, or candle- 
stick. 
All patterns of what shall be in tha 
Mount ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The whole temporal bl'.ow related roy- 
ally. 

And built lip to eterne significance 

Through the open arms of God. 'There's 
nothuig great 

Nor small,' )ias said a poet of our day, 

Whose voice wdl ring beyond the cur- 
few of eve 

And not be thrown out by the m.?tin's 
bell: 

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing's small ! 

No lily-uuiflled hum of a snminer-bee. 

But finds some coupling with the spin- 
ning stars ; 

No pebble at your foot, but proves a 
sphere ; 

No chaffinch, bvit implies the cherubim : 

And, — glancing on my own thni, veined 
wrist, — 

In such a little tremour of the blood 

The whole strong clamour of a vehe- 
ment soul 

Doth utler itself distinct. Earth's 
crammed with heaven. 

And every common bush afire with 
God: 

But only he who sees, takes off his 
slioss. 

The rest sit round it and pluck blackber- 
ries. 

And daub their natural faces unaware 

More and more from ihe first similitude. 

Truth so far, in my book ! a truth which 

draws 
From all things upward. I, Aurora, 

still 
Have felt it hound me through the 

wastes of life 
As Jove did lo : and, until that Hand 
Shall overtake me wholly, and on my 

head 
Lay down its large unfluctuating peace. 
The feverish gad-fly pricks me up and 

down. 
It must be. Art's the witness of what is 
Behind this show. If this world's show 

were all. 
Then imitation would be all in Art : 
i'here, Jove's hand gripes us! — for we 

stand here, we, 
if genuine artists, witnessing for God's 
Complete, consummate, undivided 

work ; 



— That every natural flower which 

grows on earth, 
ImphviS a flower upon the spiritual side. 
Substantial, archetypal, all a-glow 
With blossoming causes, — not so far 

av.ay, 
That we, whose spiril -sense is somewhat 

cleared. 
May catch at something of the bloom 

and breath. — 
Too vaguely apprehended, though in- 
deed 
Still apprehended, consciously or not, 
And still transferred to picture, music, 

verse, 
For thrilling aud lent and beholding souls 
By signs and touches which are known 
, to souls. 
How known they know not, — why, they 

cannot find, 
So straight call out on genius, say, ' A 

man 
Produced this,' when much rather they 

should say, 
' 'Tis insight, and he s.iw this.' 

Thus is Art 
Self-magnified in magnifying a truth 
Which, fully recognised, would change 

the world 
And shift its morals. If a max/ could 

feel, 
Not one day, in the artist's ecstasy. 
But every day, feast, fast, or working- 
day. 
The spiritual significance burn through 
The hieroglyphic of material shows. 
Henceforward he would paint the globe 

with wings. 
And reverence fish and fowl, the bull, 

the tree. 
And even his very body as a man, — 
Which now he counts so vile, that all 

the towns 
M.ake offal of their daughters for its use 
On summer-nights, when God is sad in 

heaven 
To think what goes on in his recreant 

world 
He made quite other ; while that moo:i 

He made 
To shine there, at the first love's cove- 
nant. 
Shines still, convictive as a marriage-ring 
Before adulterous eyes. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



453 



How sure it is. 
That, if we say a true word, instantly 
We leel 'us (Jod's, not ours, and pa^ it 

on 
As bread at sacrament we taste and pass 
In! or liandle lor a niument, a> indeed 
We dare J tn set up any clann to sm.h ! 
And 1 — my poem ; — let my readers talk. 
I'm closer to it — I can speak as well : 
VU say with Roraney, that the book is 

weak. 
The range uneven, the points of sight 

obscure, 
The music interrupted. 

Let us go. 
The end of woman (or of man, I think) 
Is not a book, Alas, the best oi books 
Is but a word in Ai t, which soon grows 

cramped. 
Stiff, dubioiis-statured with the weight 

of years. 
And drops an accent or digamma down 
Some cranny of unfathomable time. 
Beyond the critic's reaching. Art itself, 
We've called the higher life, must led 

the soul 
Live past it. For more's felt than is 

perceived. 
And more's perceived than can be in- 
terpreted. 
And Love strikes higher with liis lam- 
bent (lame 
Than Art can pile the fagots. 

Is it so 1 
When Jove's hand meets us with com- 
posing touch. 
And when at last we are hushed and 

satisfied. 
Then lo does not call it truth, but love ? 
Weil, well ! my father was an English- 
man : 
My mother's blood in me is not so strong 
That I should bear this stress of Tuscan 

noon 
And keep my wits. The town, there, 

seems to seethe 
In this Meda;an boil-pot of the sun. 
And all the patient hills are bubbling 

round 
As if a prick would leave them flat. 

Does heaven 
Keep far off, not to set us in a blaze ? 
Not so, — let drag your fiery fringes, 
heaven. 



And burn lis up to quiet ! Ah, we know 
ibo much here, not to know what's best 

for peace ; 
We ha\e too much hght liere, not to 

want more fire 
To puriiy and end us. We talk, talk. 
Conclude upon divine philoiophies. 
And get the thanks of men lor i.opeful 

books ; 
Whereat we take our own life up, and 

. . pshaw ! 
Unless we piece it with another's life, 
(.A. yard of silk to carry out our lawn) 
As we. I suppose my little handkerchief 
\VoulJ cover Samminiato, church an 

all. 
If out 1 threw it past the cypresses. 
As, in this ragged, narrow hie of mine. 
Contain my o»n conclusions. 

But at least 
We'lLshut up the persiani and sit down. 
And when my head's done aching in the 

cool. 
Write just a word to Kate and Carring- 

ton. 
May joy be with them! she has chosen 

well. 
And he not ill. 

I should be glad, I think, 
E.xcept for Romncy. Had Jie married 

Kate, 
I surel)', surely, should be very glad. 
This Florence sits upon me easily. 
With native air and tongue. My graves 

are calm. 
And do not too much hurt me. Ma- 
rian's g'ood, 
Gentle and loving, — lets me hold the 

child, 
Or drags him up the hills to find me 

flowers 
And fill those vases ere I'm quite 

awake. — 
The grandiose red tulips, which grow 

Wild, 

Or Dante's purple lilies, which he blew 
To a larger bubble with his prophet 

breatli ; 
Or one of tliose tall flowering reeds tlir.t 

stand 
In Anio like a sheaf cf sceptres left 
By some remote dynasty of dead gods, 
'I'o suck the stream for ages and get 

green. 



454 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And blossom wheresoe'r a hand divine 

Had warmed the place wilh ichor. 
Such I find 

At early morning laid across my bed. 

And woke up pelted with a childish 
laugh 

Which even Marian's low precipitous 
' hush ' 

Had vainly interposed to put away, — 

While 1, with shut eyes, smile and mo- 
tion for 

The dew y kiss that's very sure to come 

From mouth and cheeks, the whole 
child's face at once 

Dissolved on mine, — as if a nosegay 
burst 

Its string with the weight of roses over- 
blown. 

And dropt upon mc. Surely I should be 
glad. 

The little creature almost loves me now. 

And calls my name . . ' Alola,' stripping 
off 

The r% like thorns, to make it smooth 
enough 

To take between his dainty, milk-fed 
lips. 

God love him ! I should certainly be glad, 

E.\cept, God help me, that I'm sorrow- 
ful. 

Because of Romney. 

Romney, Romney ! Well, 

This grows absurd ! — too like a tune that 
runs 

I' the head, and forces all things in the 
world. 

Wind, rain, the creaking gnat, or stutter- 
ing fly. 

To sing Itself and vex you ; — yet per- 
haps 

A paltry tune you never fairly liked. 

Some ' I'd be a butterfly,' or ' C'est 
I'amour : ' 

We're made so, — not such tyrants to 
ourselves 

But still we are slaves to nature. Some 
of us 

Are turned, too, overmuch like some 
poor verse 

With a trick of ritournelle : the same 
thing goes 

And coraes br k ever. 

Vincent Carrington 

li 'sorry,' and I'm sorry : but /(c'j strong 



To motmt from sorrow te his heavei- of 

love. 
And when he says at moments, ' Poor, 

poor Leigh, 
Who'll never call his own so true a heart. 
So fair a face even,' — he must quickly 

lose 
The pain of pity in the blush he makes 
By his very pitying eyes. 'Ihe snow, 

for him. 
Has fallen in May, and finds the wl-.ole 

earth warm. 
And melts at the first touch of the green 

grass 
But Romney, — he has chosen, after all. 
I think he had as e.\cellent a sun 
To see by, as most others, and perhaps 
Has .scarce seen really worse than some 

of us, 
When all's said. Let him pass. I'm 

not too much 
A woman, not to be a man for once 
And bury all my Dead like Alanc, 
Depositing the treasures of my soul 
In this drained water-cour.se, then letting 

flow 
The river of life again with commerce- 
ships 
And pleasure-barges, full cf silks and 

songs. 
Blow winds, and help us. 

Ah, wc mock ourselves 
With talking of the winds ! perhaps as 

much 
With other resolutions. How it weighs. 
This hot, sick air ! and how I covet here 
The Dead's provision on the river-couch 
With silver curtains drawn on tinkling 

rings ! 
Or else their rest in quiet crypts,-laid by 
From heat and noise: — from those cicale, 

say, 
And this more vexing heart-beat. 

So it is : 
We covet for the soul, the body's part. 
To die and rot. Even so, Aurora, ends 
Our aspiration, who bespoke our jOact 
So far in the cast. The occidental flats 
Had fed r.s fatter, therefore ? we have 

climbed 
Where herbage ends? we want the 

beast's part now 
And tire of the angel's? — Men define a 

man. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



455 



The creature who stands front-ward to 

the stars. 
The creature who looks inward to him- 
self. 
The tool - Wright, laughing creature. 

'Tis enough : 
We'll say, instead, the inconsequent 

creature, man, 
For that's his speciality. What creature 

else 
Conceives the circle, and then walks the 

square ? 
Jjjves things proved bad, and leaves a 

thing proved good ? 
You think the bee makes honey half a 

year. 
To loathe the comb in winter and desire 
The little ant's food rather ? But a man — 
Note men ! — they are but women after 

ail. 
As women are but Auroras ! — there are 

men 
,Born tender, apt to pale at a trodden 

worm, 
Who paint for pastime, in their favorite 

dream. 
Spruce auto - v^tments flowered with 

crocus-flames : 
There are two, who believe in heaven, 

and fear : 
There are, who waste their souls in 

working out 
Life's problem on these sands betwixt 

two tides. 
Concluding, — ' Give us the oyster's part, 

in death.' 

Alas, long - suffering and most patient 

God, 
Thou need'st be surelier God to bear 

with us 
Than even to have made iis ! thou aspire, 

aspire 
From henceforth for me ! thou who hast 

thyself 
En lured this fleshhood, knowing how 

as a soaked 
And sucking vesture it can drag us 

down 
And choke us in the melancholy Deep, 
Sustain me, that with thee I walk these 

waves. 
Resisting I — breathe me upwar ', thou in 

me 



Aspiring, who art the way, the truth, 
the life, — 

That no truth henceforth seem indiffer- 
ent. 

No way to truth laborioas, and no life. 

Not even this life I live, intolerable ! 

The days went by. 1 took up the old 

days 
With all their Tuscan plea.sures worn 

and spoiled 
Like some lost book we dropt in the long 

grass 
On such a happy summer-afternoon 
When last we read it with a loving 

friend. 
And find in autumn when the friend i\ 

gone. 
The grass cut short, the weathc- 

changed, loo late. 
And stare at, as at something v/onderfu! 
For sorrow, — thinking how two handi 

before 
Had held up what is left to only one. 
And how we smiled when such a vehe. 

ment nail 
Impressed the tiny dint here which pre- 
sents 
This verse in fire for ever. Tenderly 
And mournfully 1 lived. I kuew the 

birds 
And insects, — which looked fathered 

. by the flowers 
And emulous of their hues : I recog- 
nized 
The moths, with the great overpoise or 

wings 
^Vhich makes a mystery of them how at 

all 
They can stop flying : butterflies, that 

bear 
Upon their blue wings such red embers 

round. 
They seem to scorch the blue air into 

holes 
Each flight they take : and fire-flies 

that suspire 
In short soft lapses of transported flame. 
Across the tmghng Dark, while over- 
head 
The constant and inviolable stars 
Outbum those lighls-of-love : melodious 

owls, 
(If music had but one note :uid was sad. 



456 



AURORA LEIGH. 



'Twould sound just so" and all lUe sUeut 

swirl 
Of bats that seem to follow in the air 
Some grand circumference of a shadowy 

dome 
To which we are blind : and then the 

nighnni,'ales. 
Which pluck our heart across a garden- 
wall 
(When walking in the town) and carry 

it 
So high into the bowery almond-trees. 
We tremble and. arc afraid, and feel as if 
The golden flood of moonlight unaware 
Diisolvej the pillars of the steady earth 
And made it leis substantial. And I 

knew 
The harmless opal snakes, and large 

mouthed frogs 
(Those noisy vaunters of their shallow 

streams) 
And lizards, the green lightnings of the 

wall, 
Which, if you sit down quiet nor sigh 

loud. 
Will flatter you and take you for a 

stone. 
And flash familiarly about your feet 
Willi such prodigious eyes in such small 

headi ! — 
1 knew them, though they had somewhat 

dwindled from 
My childish imagery, — and kept " in 

mind 
How last I sat among them equally, 
111 fellowsliip and mateship, as a child 
Feels equal still toward insect, beast, 

and bird. 
Before the Adam in him has foregone 
All privilege of Eden, — making friends 
And talk, with such a bird or such a goat. 
And buying many a two-inch-wide rush- 
cage 
To lei out the caged cricket on a tree. 
Saying, ' Oh, my dear grillino, were 

yo.i cramped ? 
Aid are yo.i happy with the ilex-leaves ? 
A id do you love me who have lei you 

go ? 
Siyj'Cj- in singing, and I'll understand. 
BlU now the creatures all seemed farther 

off-. 
No longer mine, nor Kkc me ; only theri-. 



A gulph between us. I could yearn in- 
deed. 

Like other rich men, for a drop of dew 

To cool this heat,— a drop of the early 
dew. 

The irrecoverable child innocence 

(Before the heart took fire and withered 
life) 

When childhood might pair equally 
with birds ; 

But now . . the birds were grown too 
proud for us! 

.'Mas, the very sun forbids the dew. 

And I, I had come back to an empty 

nest. 
Which every bird's too wise for. How 

I heard 
My f.ither's step on that deserted ground, 
H s voice along that silence, as he told 
I'he names of bird and insect, tree and 

flower. 
And all the presentations of the stars 
Across Valdarno, interposing still 
' My child,' ' my child.' When fathers 

say ' my child,' 
'Tis easier to conceive the universe. 
And life's transitions down the steps of 

law. 
1 rode once to the little mountain-house 
As fa.st as if to find iny father there, 
15nt when i.i .sight oft, within fi: ty yards, 
1 dropped my l-.orse's bndle on liis neck 
And paused upon his flank. The house's 

front 
Was cased with lingots of ripe Indian 

corn 
In tesselated order and device 
Of golde.i patterns : not a stone of wall 
Uncovered, — not an inch of room to 

grow 
A vine-leaf The old porch had disap- 
peared ; 
And right in the open doorway, sate a 

girl 
At plaiting straws, — her black hair 

strained away 
To a scarlet kerchief caught beneath her 

chin 
In Tuscan fashion,— her full ebo.i eyes. 
Which looked too heavy to be lifted so. 
Still dropt and lifted toward the raul- 

berry-trce 



A UK OR A LEIGH. 



457 



Oil which the lads were busy with iheit 

staves 
In shout and laughter, stripping every 

bough 
As bare as winter, of those summer 

leaves 
My father had not changed for all the 

silk 
In which the ugly silkworms hide them- 
selves. 
Enough. My horse recoiled before my 

heart. 
1 turned the rein abruptly. Back we 

went as fast, to Florence. 

Th.Tt was trial enough 
Of graves. I would not visit, if 1 cuuld, 
My father's, or my mother's any more. 
To see if stone-cutter or lichen beat 
So early in the race, or throw my flowers. 
Which could not out-smell heaven or 

sweeten earth. 
They live too far above, that I should 

look 
So far below to find them : let me think 
That rather they are visiting my grave. 
This life here, (undeveloped yet to lite) 
And that they drop upon me, now and 

then. 
For token or for solace, some smsril weed 
Least odorous of the growths of paradise. 
To spare such pungent scents as kill with 

joy. 
My old Assunta, too, was dead, was 

dead — 
O land of all men's past ! for me alone. 
It would not mix its tenses. I was pa.st. 
It seemed, like others, — only not m 

heaven 
And, many a Tuscan eve I wandered 

down 
The cypress alley like a restless ghost 
That tries its feeble ineffectual breath 
Upon its own charred funeral-brands 

put out 
Too soon, — where black and sti.T stood 

up the trees 
Against the broad vermilion of the 

skies. 
Such skies ! — all clouds abolished in a 

sweep 
Of God's skirt, with a da/zle to gliosts 

and men. 
As down 1 went, saluting on the bridg.; 



The hem of such before 'twas cauglit 

away 
Beyond the peaks of Lucca, Under- 
neath, 
The river just escaping from the weight 
Of that intolerable glory, ran 
In acquiescent shadow munnurously : 
While up beside it, streamed the festa- 

folk 
With fellow-murmurs from their feet 

and fans. 
And issimo and ino and sweet poise 
Of vowels in their pleasant scandalous 

talk ; 
Returning from the grand-duke's dairy- 
farm 
Before the trees grew dangerous ai 

eight, 
(For, 'trust no tree by moonlight,' 

Tuscans say) 
To eat their ice at Donay's tenderly. — 
Each lovely lady close to a cavalier 
Who holds her dear fan while she feeds 

her smile 
On meditative spoonfuls of vanille. 
And listens to his hot-breathed vows of 

love. 
Enough to thaw her cream and scorch 

his beard. 
'Twas little matter. I could pass them by 
Indifferently, not fearing to be known. 
No danger of being wrecked upon a 

friend. 
And forced to take an iceberg for an isle ! 
The very English, here, must wait and 

learn 
To hang the cobweb of their gossip out 
And catch a fly. I'm happy. It's sub- 
lime. 
This perfect solitude of foreign lands ! 
To be, as if you had not been till then, 
And were then, simply what you choose 

to be ; 
To spring up, not be brought forth from 

the ground 
Like grasshoppers at Athens, and skip 

thrice 
Before a woman makes a pounce oi you 
And plants you in her hair I — possess, 

yourself, 
A new world all alive with creatures 

new. 
New sun. new moon, new flowers, new 

people — ah. 



458 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Aud be possessed by none of them ! no 

right 
In one, to call your name, enquire your 

where, 
I Or what you think of Mister Somc-ouc's 

book. 
Or Mister Other's marriage or decease. 
Or how's the headache which you had 

last week. 
Or why you look so pale still, since it's 

gone ? 
— Such most surprising riddance of one's 

life 
Comes next one's death ; 'tis disembod- 

nnent 
Without the pang. I marvel, people 

choose 
To stand stock-still like fakirs, till the 

moss , 

Grows on them and they cry out, self- 
admired, 
' How verdant and how virtuous !' Well, 

I'm glad 
Or sliould be, if grown foreign to my- 
self 
As surely as to others. 

Musing so, 
1 walked the narrow unrecognising 

streets. 
Where many a palace-front peers gloom- 

Through stony vizors iron-barred, (pre- 
pared 
Alike, should foe or lover pass that way. 
For guest or victim) and came wander- 

mg out 
Upon the churches with mild open doors 
And plaintive wail of vespers, where a 

a few, 
Those chiefly women, sprinkled round 

in blots 
Upon the dusky pavement, knelt and 

prayed 
Toward the altar's silver glory. Oft a ray 
(I liked to sit and watch would tremble 

out. 
Just touch some face more lifted, more 

in need. 
Of course a woman's — while I dreamed 

a tale 
To fit Its fortunes. There was one who 

looked 
As if the earth had liuddenly grown loo 

large 



For such a little humpbacked thing as 

she ; 
The pitiful black kerchief round l.er 

neck 
Sole proof she had had a mother. One, 

again. 
Looked sick for love, — seemed praying 

some soft samt 
To put more virtue in the new fine scarf 
She spent a fortnight's meals on, yester- 
day. 
That cruel Gigi might return li.s eyes 
From Giuhana. There was one. so old. 
So old, to kneel grew easier than lo 

stand, — 
So solitary, she accepts at last 
Our Lady for her gossip, and frets on 
Against the sinful world which goes its 

rounds 
In marrying and being married, just the 

same 
As when 'twas almost good and had the 

right, 
(Her Gian alive, and she herself eigh- 
teen). 
And yet, now even, if Madonna willed. 
She'd win a tern m Thursday's lottery 
■ And better all things. Did she dream 

for nought. 
That, bftiling cabbage for the fast-day's 

soup. 
It smelt like blessed entrails? such a 

dream 
For nought ! would sweetest Mary cheat 

her .so. 
And lose that certain candle, straight 

and white 
As any fair grand-duchess in her teens. 
Which otherwise should flare here in a 

week ? 
Benigna sis, thou beauteous Queen of 

heaven !' 

1 sate there musing and imagining 
Such utterance from such faces : poor 

blind souls 
That writhed toward heaven along the 

devil's trail, — 
Who knows, I thought, but He may 

stretch his hand 
And pick them up? 'tis written in tho 

Hook 
He heareth the young ravens when they 

cry ; 



A UK OK A LEIGH. 



459 



And yet they cry for carrion. — O my 

God, 
And we, who make excuses for the rest. 
We do It in our measure. Then I knelt. 
And dropped my head upon the pave- 
ment too. 
And prayed, since I was foolish in desire 
Like other creatures, craving offal-food. 
That He would stop his ears to what 1 

said. 
And only listen to the run and beat 
Of this poor, passionate, helpless blood — 

And then 
I lay, and spoke not. But He heard in 

heaven. 
So many Tuscan evenings passed the 

same. 
I could not lose a sunset on the bridge, 
And would not miss a vigil in the church. 
And liked to mingle with the out-door 

crowd 
So strange and gay and ignorant of my 

face. 
For men you know not, are as good as 

tree.>. 
And only once, at the Santlssima. 
I almost chanced upon a man I knew. 
Sir Blaise Delorme. He saw me cer- 
tainly, 
And some what hurried, as he crossed 

himself. 
The smoothness of the action, — then half 

bowed. 
But only half, and merely to my shade, 
I slipped so quick behind the porphyry 

plinth 
And left him dubious if 'twas really I. 
Or peradventure Satan's usual trick 
1o keep a mounting saint uncanonised. 
But he was safe for that time, and I too ; 
The .irgent angels in the altar-flare 
Absorbed his soul next moment. The 

good man ! 
In England we were scarce acquaint- 
ances, 
That here in Florence he should keep 

my thought 
Beyond the image on his eye-, which 

came 
And went : and yet his thought dis- 
turbed my life : 
For, after that, I oftener sat at home 
On evenings, watching how they fined 
themselves 



With gradual conscience to a perfect 

night. 
Until the moon, diminished to a curve, 
Lay out there like a sickle for His iiaiul 
Who Cometh down at last to reap the 

earth. 
At such times, ended seemed my trade 

of verse ; 
I feared to jingle bells upon my robe 
Before tlie four-faced silent cherubim,: 
With God so near me, could I sing of 

God ? 
I did not write, nor read, nor even 

think, 
But sate absorbed amid the quickening 

glooms. 
Most like some passive broken lump of 

salt 
Dropt in by chance to a bowl of ceno- 

mel,* 
To spoil the drink a little and lose itself. 
Dissolving slowly, slowly, until lost. 



EIGHTH BOOK. 

One eve it happened when I sate alone. 

Alone upon the terrjCe of my tower, 

A book upon my knees to counterfeit 

The reading that I never read at all. 

While Marian, in the garden down be- 
low. 

Knelt by the fountain I could iust hear 
thrill 

The drowsy silence of the exhausted 
day. 

And peeled a new fig from that purple 
heap 

In the grass beside her, — turning out the 
red 

To feed her e.ager child, who sucked r.t 
it 

With vehement lips across a gap of a-r 

As he stood opposite, face and curls 
a-flame 

With that last sun-ray, crying, ' give mc, 
S've,' 

And stamping with imperious baby- 
feet, 

(We're all born princes) — something 
startled me. — 

The laugh of sad and innocent souls, 
that breaks 



4(>o 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Abrviptly, as if frightened at itself ; 
'Twas Marian laughed. 1 saw her 

glance above 
In sudden shame that I should hear her 

laugh, 
And straightway dropped my eyes upon 

my book, 
And knew, the first time, 'twas Bocca- 

cio's tale. 
The Falcon's, — of the lover who for 

love 
Destroyed the best that loved him. 

Some of us 
Do it still, and then We sit and laugh no 

more 
Laugh ;j'^;<, sweet Marian! you've the 

right to laugh, 
Since God himself is for you, and a 

child I 
For me there's somewhat less,— and so I 

sigh. 

The heavens Were making room to hold 

the night. 
The .seven-fold heavens imfolding all 

their gales 
To let the stars out slowly (prophesied 
In close-approaching advent, not dis- 
cerned). 
While still the cue-owls from the 

cypresses 
Of the poggio called and counted every 

pulse 
Of the .skyey palpitation. Gradually 
The purple and transparent shadows 

slow 
Had filled up the whole valley to the 

brim, 
/^iid flooded all the city, which yuu 

saw 
As'^imc drowned city in some enchanted 

sea. 
Cut off from nature, — drawing you who 

gaze. 
With passionate desire, to leap and 

plimge 
And find a sea-king with a voice of 

waves. 
And treacherous soft eyes, : nd slippery 

locks 
You cannot kiss but you shall bring 

away 
Their salt upon your lips. The duomo- 

bell 



Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms 

down. 
So deep ; and fifty churches answer it 
The same with twenty various instances. 
Some gaslights tremble along squares 

and streets ; 
The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in fire : 
And, past the quays, Maria Novella • 

Place, 
In which the mystic obelisks stand up 
Triangular, pyramidal, each ba.sed 
Upon it-; four-squar.e brazetl tortoises. 
To guard that fair church, Buonarotti's 

Bride. 
That stares out from her large blind 

dial-eyes. 
Her quadrant and armillary dials, black 
With rhythms of many suns and moons, 

in vain 
Enquiry for so rich a .soul as his. 
Methinks I have plunged, I see it all so 

clear . . . 
And, oh my heart , . . the sea-king ! 

In my ears 
The sound of waters. There he stoodc 
my king 1 

I felt him, rather than beheld him Up 

I rose, as if he were my king indeed. 

And then sate down, in trouble at my- 
self. 

And struggling for my woman's empery. 

Tis pitiful ; but women are so made : 

We'll die for you perhaps, — 'tis proba- 
ble ; 

But we'll not spare you an inch of our 
fill height : 

We'll have our whole just stature, — five 
feet four, 

ThoMgh laid out in our coffins : pitiful ! 

— ' You, Romney 1 Lady Waldemar 

is here ? ' 

He answered in a voice which was not 

his, 
'I have her letter; you shall read it 

soon. 
I'l'it first. I must be heard a little, I, 
Who have waited long and travelled far 

for that. 
Although you thought to have shut a 

tedious book 
And farewell. Ah, you dog-eared such 

a page, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



^6\ 



And here you find me.' 

Uid he touch my hand. 

Or but my sleeve? 1 irembled, hand 
and loot, — 

He nniat have touched mc. — ' Will you 
sit'f ' 1 asked. 

And motioned to a chair ; but dovv-n he 
sate, 

A'little slowly, as a man in doubt. 

Upon the couch beside me,— couch and 
chair 

Being wheeled upon the terrace. 

' You are come. 

My cousin Romney ?— this is wonder- 
ful. 

But all is wonder on such summer- 
nights ; 

And nothing should surprise us any 
more, 

Who see that miracle of stars. Behold.' 

I signed above, where all the stars were 

out. 
As if an urgent heat had started there 
A secret writuig from a sombre page, 
A blank last moment, crowded suddenly 
With hurrying splendors. 

' Then you do not know' — 
He murmured. 

' Yes, I know,' 1 said, ' I know. 
I had the news from Vincent Carring- 

ton. 
And yet I did not think you'd leave the 

work 
In England, for so much even, — though 

of course 
You'll make a work-day of your lioliday, 
And turn it to our Tuscan people's use, — 
Who much need helping since the Aus- 
trian boar 
(So bold to cross the Alp to Lomb.-;rdy 
And dash liis brute front unabashed 

against 
The steep snow-bosses of that shield of 

God 
Who soon shall rise in wrath and shake 

it clear.) 
Came hither also, — raking up our grape 
And olive-gardens with his tyrannous 

tusk. 
And rolling on our maize with all his 

swine.' 

« You had the news from Vincent Car- 
rington,' 



He echoed,— picking up the phrase be- 
yond, 

As if he knew the rest was merely talk 

To fill a gap and keep out a strong wind, 

' You hid, then, Vmcent's personal 
news 'i' 

' His own,' 

I answered. 'All that ruined world of 
yours 

Seems crumbling into marriage. Car- 
rington 

Has chosen wisely ' 

' T)o you take it so?' 

He cried, ' and is it possible at last' . , 

He paused there, — and then, inward to 
himself, 

'Too much at last, too late ! — yet cer- 
tainly' . . 

(And there his voice swayed as an Al- 
pine plank 

That feels a passionate torrent under- 
neath) 

' The knowledge, had I known it first or 
last. 

Had never changed the actual case for 
}!te. 

And best for her at this time.' 

Nay, 1 thought. 

He loves Kate Ward, it seems, now, like 
a man. 

Because he has married Lady Walde- 
mar. 

Ah, Vincent's letter said how Leigh was 
moved 

To hear that Vincent was betrothed to 
Kate. 

With what cracked pitchers go we to 
deep wells 

In this world ! Then I spcke — ' 1 did 
not think. 

My cousin, you had ever known Kate 
Ward.' 

' In fact I never knew her. 'Tis enough 
That Vincent did, and therefore chose 

his wife 
For other reasons than those topaz eyes 
I've heard of. Not to undervalue them. 
For all that. One takes up the world 

with eyes. 

— Including Romney Leigh, I thought 

again. 
Albeit \.^ ktiows them only by jrepiits. 



46a 



AURORA LEIGir. 



How vile must all men be, since ke's a 
man. 

His deep pathetic voice, as if he guessed 
1 did not surely love I'lin, took the word; 
Vou never got a letter irom Lord Howe 
A month back, dear Aurora '.'' 

■ None,' 1 said. 

' I felt it so,' he replied : ' Yet, strange ! 
Sir Blaise Delorme has passed through 

Florence ? 

■Ay, 
By chance I saw him in Our Lady's 

church, 
(I saw him, mark you, but he saw not 

me) 
Clean-washed in holy water from the 

count 
Of things terrestrial, — letters and the 

rest ; 
He had crossed us out together with l.i; 

sins. 
Ay, strange ; but only strange that good 

Lord Howe 
Preferred him to the post because of 

pauls. 
For me I'm sworn never to trust a man — 
At least with letters.' 

There were facts to tell. 

To smooth with eye and accent. Howe 
supposed . . 

Well, well, no matter I there was du- 
bious need ; 

You heard the news from Vincent Car- 
rington. 

And yet perhaps you h.ad been startled 
less 

To see me, dear Aurora, if you had 
read 

That letter.' 

— Now he sets me down as vexed. 

I think I've draped myself in woman's 
pride 

To a perfect purpose. Oh, Fm vexed, 
it seems ! 

My friend Lord Howe deputes his friend 
Sir Blaise 

To break as softly as a sparrow's egg 

That lets a bird out tenderly, the news 

Of Komiiey's marriage to a certain saint; 

U'o smooth with eye and accent, — indi- 
cate 



His possible presence. Excellently well 
You've played your part, my Lady 

VVaideiiuu-,— 
As Fve played mine. 

■ Dear Romney,' I began, 
' You did not use, of old, to be so like 
A Greek king coming from a taken Troy, 
Twas needtul that precursors spread 

your path 
With three-piled carpets, to receive your 

foot 
And dull the sound oft. For myself, be 

sure. 
Although it fianUly grinds the gravel 

here, 
I still can bear it. Yet Fm sorry too 
To lose this famous letter, which Sir 

Blaise 
Has twisted to a lighter absently 
To fire some holy taper : dear Lord 

Howe 
Writes letters good for all things but to 

lose ; 
And many a flower of London gossipry 
Has dropt wherever such a stem broke 

off. 
Of course I feel that, lonely among my 

vines. 
Where nothing's talked of, save the 

blight again. 
And no more Chianti ! Still the letter's 

use 

As preparation Did 1 start indeed ? 

Last night 1 started at a cockchaler. 
And shook a half-hour after. Have you 

learnt 
No more of woman, 'spite of privilege. 
Than still to take account too seriously 
Of sucli weak flutterings 51 Why, we 

like It, sir. 
We get our powers and our effects that 

way. 
The trees stand stiff .nud still at tunc of 

frost, 
If no wind tears them ; but, let suriimor 

come. 
When trees are happy, — and a brea:!i 

avails 
To set them trembling through .a million 

leaves 
In luxury of emotion. Something less 
It takes to move a woman : let her start 
And shake at pleasure, — nor conclude ut 

yours, 



Ai'KiK'CA Li:n:i[. 



463 



The winter's bitter, — 'out the summer's 
green.' 

He answered, ' Be the summer ever 

green 
With you, Aurora ! — thougli you sweep 
. your sex 

With somewhat bitter gusts from where 

you live 
Above them, whirling downward from 

your heights 
Your very own pine-cones, in a grand 

disdain 
Of the lowland burrs with which you 

scatter them. 
So high and cold to others and yourself, 
A little less to Romney were unjust. 
And thuc, I would not have you. Let 

it pass : 
1 feel content so. You can bear indeed 
My sudden step beside you : but for me, 
'Twould move me sore to hear your 

softened voice, — 
Aurora's voice, — if softened unaware 
In pity of what I am.' 

Ah friend, I thought. 
As husband of the Lady Waldemar 
You're granted very sorely pitiable ! 
And yet Aurora Leigh must guard h:r 

voice 
From softening in the pity of your case. 
As if from lie or license. Certainly 
We'll soak up all the slush and soil of life 
With softened voices, ere we come to 

you. 

At which I interrupted my own thought 
And spoke out calmly. ' Let us ponder, 

friend, 
Whate'er our state we must have made 

it first ; 
And though the thing displease tis, aj', 

perhaps 
Displease us warrantably, never doubt 
That other states, though possible once, 

and then 
Reiected by the instinct of our lives, 
)r then adopted had displeased us more 
Than this in which the choice, the will, 

the love. 
Has stamped the honour of a patent act 
From henceforth. What we choose may 

not be good ; 



But, that we choose it, proves it good for 

us 
Potentially, fantastically, now 
Or last year, rather than a thing we saw. 
And saw no need for choosing. Moths 

will burn 
Their wings, — which proves that light is 

good for moths. 
Or else they had flown not where they 

agonise.' 

' Ay, light is good,' he echoed, and there 

paused. 
And then abruptly, . . ' Mari.an. M.i- 
•rian's well ?' 

I bowed my head but found no word. 

'Twas hard 
To speak of her to Lady Waldemar's 
New husband. How much did he know, 

at last ? 
How much? how little ?—^ He would 

take no sign. 
But straight repeated, — ' Marian. Is she 

well?' 

' She's well,' I answered. 

She was there in sight 
An hour back, but the night had drawn 

her home ; 
Where still I heard her in an upper 

room. 
Her low voice singing to the child in 

bed. 
Who, restless with the summer-heat and 

pl.ry 
And slumber snatched at noon, w.as Ion , 

sometimes 
At falling off, and took a score of songs 
And mother-hushes ere she saw him 

sound. 

' She's well,' I answered. 

' Here ?' he .asked. 

' Yes, here. ' 

He stopped and sighed. ' That shall be 

presently. 
But now this must be. I have words to 

say, 
And would be alone to say t'nem, I with 

you. 



464 



AUK OK A LEIC.U. 



And no third troubling.' 

' Speak then,' I retnrned, 
' She will not vex you.' 

At which, suddenly 
He turned his face upon me with its 

smile. 
As if to crush me. ' I have read your 

book, 
Aurora.' 

' You have read it,' I replied, 
' And I have writ it, — we have done 

with it. 
And now the rest ?' 

' I'he rest is like the first. 
He answered, — ' for the book is m my 

heart. 
Lives in me, wakes in me, and dreams 

in me : 
My daily bread ta.stes of it, — and my 

wine 
Which has no smack of it, I pour it out ; 
It seems unnatural drinking.' 

Bitterly 
I took the word up ; ' Never waste your 

wine. 
The book lived in me ere it lived in you ; 
I know it closer than another does, 
And how it's ioolish, feeble, and afraid. 
And all unworthy so much compliment. 
Beseech you, keep your wine, — and, 

when you drink. 
Still wish some happier fortune to a 

friend. 
Than even to have written a far better 

book,' 

He answered gently, 'That is conse- 
quent : 
The poet looks beyond the book he has 

made. 
Or else he had not made it. If a man 
Could make a man, he'd henceforth be 

a god 
In feelmg what a little thing is man : 
It is not my case. And this special book, 
I did not make it, to make light of it : 
It stands above my knowledge, draws 

me up ; 
'Tis high to me. It may be that the book 
Is not so high, but 1 so. low, mstead ; 
Still high to me. I mean no compliment: 
I will not say there are not, young or old, 
Male writers, ay or female, — let it pass. 



Who'll write us richer and completer 
books. 

A man may love a woman perfectly. 

And yet by no means ignorantly main- 
lain 

A thousand women have not larger eyes: 

Enough that she alone has looked at \\\a\ 

Wiih eyes that, large or small, have won 
his soul. 

And so, this book, Aurora, — so, your 
book.' 

' Alas,' I answered, ' is it so, indeed V 

And then was silent. 

' Is it so, indeed,' 

He echoed, ' that alas is all your word V 

J said, — ' I'm thinking of a far-off June, 

When you and I, upon my birthday 
once, 

Discoursed of life and art, with both 
untried. 

I'm thinking, Romney, how 'twas morn- 
ing then. 

And now 'tis night.' 

'And now,' he said, 'tis night.' 

* I'm thinking,' I resumed, ' 'tis some- 
what sad 

That if 1 had known, that morning in 
the dew. 

My cousin Romney would have said 
such woids 

On such a night at close of many years. 

In speaking of a future book of mine. 

It would have pleased me better as a 
hope. 

Than as an actual grace it can at all. 

That's sad, I'm thinking.' 

' Ay,' he said, ' 'tis night.' 

'And there,' I added lightly, 'are the 

stars ! 
And here we'll talk of stars and not of 

books,' 

' You have the stare,' he murmured, — 

'it IS well : 
He like thenv ! shine, Aurora, on my 

dark 
Though high and cold and only like a 

star. 
And for this short night only, — you, 

who keep 



AURORA r.EICII. 



465 



The same Aurora of the bright June 
day 

That withered isp the flowers before my 
face. 

And turned me from the garden ever- 
more 

Because I was not worthy. Oh, de- 
served. 

Deserved ! That I, who verily had not 
learnt 

God's lesson half, attaining as a dunce 

To obliterate good works with fractious 
thumbs 

And cheat myself of the context, — / 
should push 

Aside, with male ferocious impudence. 

The world's Aurora, who had conned 
her part 

On the other side the leaf! Ignore her 
so. 

Because she was a woman and a queen. 

And had no beard to bristle through her 
song. 

My teacher, who has taught me with a 
book, 

My Miriam, whose sweet mouth, when 
nearly drowned 

I still heard .singing on the shore I De- 
served, 

That here I should look up unto the 
stars 

And miss the glory ' . . 

' Can I understand ? ' 
I broke in. ' Vou speak wildly, Rom- 

ney Leigh, 
Or I hear wildly. In that morning- 
time 
We recollect, the roses were too red. 
The trees too green, reproach too nat- 
ural 
If one should see not what the other 

saw : 
And now, it's night, remember ; we 

have shades 
In place of colours ; we are now grown 

cold. 
And old, my cousin Romney. Pardon 

me, — 
I'm very happy that you like my book, 
And very sorry that 1 quoted back 
A ten years' birthday ; 'twas .so mad a 

thing 
In any woman, I scarce marvel much 



Vou took it for a venturous piece of 

spite. 
Provoking such excuses as indeed 
I cannot call you slack in.' 

' Understand,' 
He answered sadly, ' something, if but 

so. 
This night is softer than an English day, 
And men may well come hither when 

they're sick. 
To draw in easier breath from larger air. 
'Tis thus with me ; I've come to you, — 

to you. 
My Italy of women, just to breathe 
My soul out once before you, ere I go. 
As humble as God makes me at the last 
{I thank Him) quite out of the way of 

men 
And yours, Aurora, — like .1 punished 

child. 
His cheeks all blurred with tears and 

naughtiness. 
To silence in a corner. I am cnmc 
To speak, beloved ' . . 

■ Wisely, cousin Leigh, 
And worthily of us both !' 

' Yes, worthily ; 
For this time I must speak out and con- 

fess 
That I, so truculent in assumption once. 
So absolute m dogma, proud 111 aim. 
And fierce in expectation, — 1, who felt 
The whole world tugging at my skirts 

for help. 
As if no other man than I, could pull. 
Nor woman, but I led her by the hand. 
Nor cloth hold, but I had it in my coat. 
Do know myself to-night for what I was 
On that June<-day, Aurora. Poor bright 

day, 
Which meant the best . . a woman and 

a -. ose, 
And which I smote upon the cheek with 

words 
Until it turned and rent me ! Young 

you were. 
That birthday, poet, but you talked the 

right : 
While 1, . . 1 built np follies like a wall 
To intercept the sunshine and your face. 
Your face ! that's worse.' 

Speak wisely, cousin Leigh.' 
' Yes, wisely, dear Aurora, though too 

late : 



455 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Btit then, not wisely. I was heavy then. 

An J stupid, ami J.stracted witli the cnes 
Of tortared prisoaeis in the polished 

or that Phalarian bull, «)ciety. 
Which seems to bellow bravely like ten 

bulls. 
But, if you listen, moans and cries in- 
stead 
Despairingly,' like victiins tossed and 

gired 
And trampled by their hoofs. I heard 

the cries 
Too close : I could no: hear the angels 

lift 
A fold of rustling air. nor what they said 
To help my pity. I beheld the world 
As one great famishing carnivorous 

mouth. — 
A h ije, deserted, callow, blind, bird 

Thing, 
With piteous open beak that hurt my 

heart. 
Till dDwn upon the filthy ground I drop- 
ped. 
And tore the \-iolets up to get the worms. 
Worms, worms, was all my crj' : an 

open mouth, 
A gross want, bread to fill it to the lips. 
No mire ! That poor men narrowed 

their demxnds 
To 5 ich aa end. ^vas virtue, I supposed, 
.■\dj idicating that to see it so 
Wis reason. Oh, \ did not push the case 
\jp higher, and ponder how it answers 

when 
The nch take up the same cry for them- 
selves. 
Professing equallj-, — ' an open mouth 
A gross need, food lo £11 us, and no 

more.' 
Why til at 's so far from \'irtue, only vice 
Can fin d excuse for"! ! That makes 

libertines : 
And sluri our cruel streets from end to 

end 
With eighty thousand women in one 

smile. 
Who only smile at night beneath the 

ga^ : 
The body's satisfaction and no more. 
Is u^ed for argtment against the soul's. 
Here too ; the ;vant, here too. implies 

the right. 



— How dark I stood that morning in the 

sun. 
My best Aurora, though I saw your eyes, 
Wnen first you told n»e . . oh, I recollect 
The sounds, and how you lifted your 

small hand. 
And how your white dress and your 

burnished curls 
Went greatening roimd you in the still 

blue air. 
As if an inspiration from within 
Had blown them all out when you spoke 

the words. 
Even these. — ' You will not compass 

your poor ends 
' Of barley -feeding and material ease, 

■ Without the poet^s indiN-idualism 

' To work your universal. It takes a soul, 
' To move a body, — it takes a high- 

souled man. 
' To move the masses . . even to a clean- 
er style : 

■ It takes the ideal, to blow an inch in- 

side 

' The dust of the actual : and your 
Fouriers failed, 

' Because not poets enough to under- 
stand 

' That life develops from wthin.' I say 

Your words, — 1 could say other words of 
yours ; 

For none of all your words will let me 

. g° : 

Like sweet verbena which.being brushed 
against. 

Will hold us three hours after by the 
smell 

In spite of long walks upon windy hills. 

But thee words dealt in sharper per- 
fume, — these 

Were ever on me, stinging through my 
dreams. 

And saying themselves for ever o'er my 
acts 

Like some unhappy verdict. That I 
failed. 

Is certain. Style or no style, to con- 
trive 

The swine's propuls'on toward the pre- 
cipice. 

Proved easy and plain. I subtly organ- 
ised 

And ordered, built the cards up high 
and higher, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



467 



rill, some one breathing, all fell flat 

again ! 
In setting right society's wide wrong, 
Mere life 's 50 fatal ! So I failed indeed 
Once, twice, and oftener, -— hearing 

through the rents 
Of obstinate purpose, still those words of 

yours. 
• Yon Tvili not compass your poor ettds , 

not yoti /' 
But harder than you said them ; everj* 

time 
Still farther from your voice, until they 

cams 
To overcrow me with triumphant scorn 
Which vexed me to resistance. Set down 

this 
For condemnation, — I was guilty here : 
I stood upon my deed and fought my 

doubt. 
As men will, — for I doubted.^-till at last 
My deed gave way beneath me suddenly 
And letc me what I am. The curtain 

dropped. 
My pirt quite ended, all the footlights 

quenched. 
My own soul hissing at me through the 

dark. 
I. ready for confession. — I was wrong, 
I've sorelv failed, I've slipped the ends 

of lif4, 
I yield, you have conquered.' 

' Stay,' I answered htm ; 
' I've something for your hearing, aUo. I 
Have failed too.' 

' You !' he said, ' you're very great ; 
The sadness of your greatness fits you 

well : 
As if the plume upon a hero's casque 
Should nod a shadow upon his victor 

■ face.' 
I took him up austerely, — ' You have 

read 
My book, but not my heart ; for recol- 
lect, 
'Tis Writ in Sanscrit which you bimgle 

at. 
I've surely failed, I know, if failure 

means 
To loak back sadly on work gladly 

done,— 
To wander on my mountains of Delight, 
So callea, (I can remember a friend's 

words 



; As well as you, sir,] wear^- and in want 

Of even a sheep-path, thinking bitterly. . 

Well, well ! no matter. I but say so 
I much, 

: To keep you, Romney Leigh, from say- 
I ing more, 

I And let you feel I am not so high in- 
' deed. 

That I can bear to have yott at ray 
foot, — 

Or safe, that 1 can help you. That June- 
day, 

Too deeply sunk in craterous stinsets 
now 

For you or me to dig it up alive ; 

To pluck it out all bleeding with spent 
flame 

At the roots, before th<Be moralising 
stars 

We have go: instead, — that poor lost 
day, you said 

Some words as truthful as the thing of 
mine 
I You cared to keep in memors' : and I 
I hold 

I If 1. that day, and, being the girl I was 

Had shown a gentler spirit, less arro- 
gance. 

It had not hurt me. You will scarce 
mistake 

The point here. I but only think, you 
see. 

More justly, that's more humblv, of my- 
self. 

Than when I tried a crown oa and 
supposed . . . 

Nay. laugh sir, — 111 laugh with you ! — 
pray you, laugh. 

I've had so many birthdays since that 
day, 

I've leamt to prize mirth's opportuni- 
ti«. 

Which come too seldom. Was it you 
who said 

I was not changed ? the same Aurora ? 
Ah, 

We could laugh there, too! Why, 
Ulysses* dog 

Knew him. and wagged his tail and 
died : but if 

I had owned a dog, I too, before my 
Troy, 

.\nd, if you brought him here, . . 1 war- 
rant you 



46s 



AURORA LEIGH. 



He'd look into my face, bark lustily, 

And live on stoutly, as the creatures will 

Whose spirits are not troubled by long 
loves. 

A dog would never know me, I'm so 
changed. 

Much less a friend . . except you're mis- 
led 

By the colour of the hair, the trick of 
the voice. 

Like that Avirora Leigh's.' 

' Sweet trick of voice I 

I would be a dog for this, to know it at 
last. 

And die upon the falls of it. O love, 

best Aurora I are you then so sad, 
You scarcely had been sadder as my 

wife t ' 

' Your wife, sir ! I must certainly be 
changed 

If I, Aurora, can have said a thing 

So light, it catches at the knightly spurs 

Of a noble gentleman like Romney 
Leigh, 

And trips him from his honourable sense 

Of what befits ' . . 

' You wholly misconceive,' 

He answered. 

I returned, — ' I'm glad of it : 

But keep from misconception, too, your- 
self : 

1 am not humbled to so low a point, 
Nor so far saddened. If I am sad at 

all, 
Ten layers of birthdays on a woman's 

head 
Are apt to fossilise her girlish mirth. 
Though ne'er so merry : I am perforce 

more wise 
And that, in truth, means sadder. For 

the rest, 
Look here, sir : I was right upon the 

whole 
That birthday morning. 'Tis impossible 
To get at men excepting through their 

souls, 
However open their carnivorous jaws : 
And poets get directlier at the soul. 
Than any of your oeconomists ; — for 

which 
You must not overlook the poet's work 
When schemmg for the world's necessi- 
ties. 



The soul's the way. Not even Christ 

Himself 
Can save man else than as Ho holds 

man's soul ; 
And therefore did He come into our 

flesh. 
As some wise hunter creeping on his 

knees 
With a torch, into the blackness of a 

cave. 
To face and quell the beast ihere, — take 

the soul, 
And so possess the whole nvan, body and 

soul. 
I said, so far, right, yes r not farther, 

though : 
We both were wrong tKat June-day, — 

both as wrong 
As an east wind had been. I who talked 

of art, 
And you who grieved for all men's griefs 

. . . what then ? 
We surely made too small a part for God 
In these things. What We are, imports 

us more 
Than what we eat : and life, you've 

granted me, 
Develops from within But innermost 
Of the inmost, most interior of the in- 
terne, 
God claims his own. Divine humanity 
Renewing nature,— or the piercingest 

verse, 
Brest in by subtlest poet, still must keep 
As much upon the outside of a man 
As the very bowl in which he dips his 

beard. 

— And then, . . the rest ; I cannot surely 

speak. 
Perhaps I doubt more than you doubted 

then, 
If I, the poet's veritable charge. 
Have borne upon my forehead. If 1 

have 
It might feel somewhat liker to a crown. 
The foolish green one even. — Ah, 1 think. 
And chietly when the sun shines, that 

I've failed. 
But what then, Romney ? Though w« 

fail indeed, 
You . . I . . a score of such weak work. 

ers, . . He 
Fails never. If He cannot work by Us, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



469 



He wilt work over us. Does He want 

a man, 
Much less a woman, think you ? Every 

time 
The star winks there, so many souls are 

born, 
Who all shall work too. Let our own 

be calm ; 
We should be ashamed to sit beneath 

those stars, 
Impatient that we're nothing. 

' Could we sit 
Just so for ever, sweetest friend,' he said, 
' My failure would seem better than suc- 
cess. 
And yet indeed your book has dealt 

with me 
More gently, cousin, than you ever will ! 
The book brought down entire the 

bright June-day, 
And set me wandering in the garden- 
walks. 
And let me watch the garlarld in a place. 
You blushed so . . nay, forgive me ; do 

not stir : 
I only thank the book for what it taught. 
And what, permitted. Poet, doubt your* 

self. 
But never doubt that you're a poet to 

me 
From henceforth. You have-'written 

poems, sweet. 
Which moved me in secret, as the sap 

is moved 
In still March-branches, signless as a 

stone : 
But this last book o'ercame me like soft 

rain 
Which falls at midnight, when the 

tightened bark 
Breaks out into unhesitating buds 
And sudden protestations of the spring. 
In all your other books, 1 saw but you ; 
A.man may see the moon so, in a pond. 
And not the nearer therefore to the 

moon. 
Nor use the sight . . except to drown 

himself. 
And so I forced my heart b.ick from the 

sight, 
Fo"- what had /, 1 thought.to do with hef, 
Aurora . . Romney ? But, in this Last 

book, 



You showed me something separate from 

yourself. 
Beyond you, and I bore to take it in, / 
And let it draw me You have shown 

me truths, 
O June-day friend, that help me now at 

night 
When June is over I truths not yours, 

indeed. 
But set within my reach by means of 

you, 
Presented by your voice and verse the 

way 
To take them elearest, Verily I was 

wrong ; 
And verily many thinkers of this age. 
Ay, many Christian teachers, half in 

heaven. 
Are wrong in just my sense who under- 
stood 
Our natural world too insularly, as if 
No spiritual counterpart completed it 
Consummating its meaning, rounditlg 

all 
To justice and perfection, line by line. 
Form by form, nothing single nor alorte. 
The great below clenched by the great 

above. 
Shade here authenticating substance 

there. 
The body proving spirit, a9 the effect 
The cause : we meantime being loo 

grossly apt 
To hold the natural, as dogs a bone, 
(Though reason and nature beat us in 

the face) 
So obstinately, that we'll break our 

teeth 
Or ever we let go. For everywhere 
We're too matprialistic,-^eating clay 
(Like men of the west) instead of 

Adam's corn 
And Noah's wine; clay by handfuls, 

clay by lumps. 
Until we're filled up to the throat with 

clay. 
And grow the grimy colour of the 

ground 
On which we are feeding. Ay, materi- 
alist 
The age's name is. God himself, with 

some. 
Is apprehended as the bare result 
Of what his hand materially has made, 



470 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Expressed in such an algebraic sign 
Called God ; — that is, to put it other- 
wise, 
They add up nature to a naught of God 
And cross the quotient. There are 

many even 
Whose names are written in the Chris- 
tian church 
To no dishonour, — diet still on mud, 
And splash the altars with it. You 

might thuik 
The clay, Christ laid upon their eyelids / 

when, 
Still blind, he called them to the use of 

sight, 
Remained there to retard its exercise 
With cloggmg incrustations. Close to 

heaven, 
They see, for mysteries, through the 

open doors, 
Vague puffs of smoke from pots of 

earthenware ; 
And fain would enter, when their time 

shall come. 
With quite another body than St Paul 
Has promised, — husk and chaff, the 

whole barley corn, 
Or where's the resurrection ? ' 

■ Thus it is,' 
I sighed. And he resumed with mourn- 
ful face. 
' Beginning so, and filling up with clay 
The wards of this great key, the natural 

world, 
And fumbling vainly therefore at the 

lock 
Of the spiritual, — we feel ourselves shut 

in 
With all the wild-beast roar of struggling 

life. 
The terrors and compunctions of our 

souls. 
As saints with lions, —we who are not 

saint.s. 
And have no heavenly lordship in our 

stare 
To awe them backward I Ay, we are 

forced, so pent. 
To judge the whole too p.artially, . . 

confound 
Conclusions. Is there any common 

phrase 
Significant, with the adverb heard 

alone, 



The verb being absent, and the pronoun 

out? 
But we, distracted in the rojr of life 
Still insolently at God's adverb snatch, 
And bruit against Him that his thought 

IS void, 
His meaning hopeless, — cry, that every- 
where 
The government is slipping from his 

hand, 
Unless some other Christ.. say Romncy 

Leigh . . 
Come up and toil and moil, and change 

the world. 
Because the First has proved inadequate, 
However we talk bigly of His wurk 
And piously of Hjs person. We blas- 
pheme 
At last, to finish our do.\o!ogy. 
Despairing on the earth for which He 

died.' 
'So noiv I asked, 'you have more hope 
of men ? 

' I hope,' he answered ; ' I am come to 

think 
That God will have his work done, as 

you s.aid, 
And that we need not be disturbed too 

much 
For Romney Leigh or others having 

failed 
With this or that quack nostrum, — 

recipes 
For keeping summits by annulling 

depths, 
For wrestling with luxurious lounging 

sleeves, 
And acting heroism without a scratch. 
We fail, — what, then? Aurora, if I 

smiled 
To see you, in your lovely morning- 
pride, 
Try on the poet's wreath which suits 

the noon, 
(Sweet cousin, walls must get the 

weather-stain 
Before they grow the ivy !) certainly 
1 stood myself there worthier oi con- 
tempt, 
Self-rated, in dls.astrous arrogance. 
As competent to sorrow for mankind 
And even their odds. A man may well 

despair. 



AURORA LEIGH.- 



Who counts himself so needfii! to suc- 
cess. 
1 failed. I throw the remedy back on 

God, 
And sit down here beside you in good 

hope.' 
•And yet, t;ike heed,' I answered, 'lest 

we lean 
Too d.ingeroii.sIy on the other side, 
And so l.ul twice. Be sure, no earnest 

work 
Of any honest creature, howbeit weak, 
Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much. 
It IS not gathered .is a grain of sand 
To enlarge the sum of human action used 
For carrying out God's end. No crea- 
ture works 
So ill, observe, that therefore he's 

cashiered. 
The honest earnest man must stand and 

work, 
The woman also ; otherwise she drops 
At once below the digiity of man. 
Accepting serfdom. Free men freely 

work. 
Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease.' 

He cried, "True. After Adam, work 

was curse ; 
The natural creature labours, sweats and 

frets. 
But after Christ, work turns to privilege. 
And henceforth one with our humanity. 
The Si.v-day Worker, working still m us, 
Has called us freely to work on with 

Him 
In high companionshi i. So, happiest I 
I count that Heaven itself is only work 
To a surer issue. Let us work, indeed, 
But no more work as Adam . . nor as 

Leigh 
Erewhile. as if the only man on earth. 
Responsible for all the thistles blown 
And tig rs couchant, — struggling in 

amaze 
Against disease and winter, — snarling on 
For ever, th.it the world's not paradis;, 
Oh cousin, let us be content, in work. 
To do the thing we can, and not presume 
To fret because it's little. 'Twill employ 
Seven men, they say, to make a perfect 

pm : 
Who makes the head, content to miss the 

point. 



Who makes the point, agreed to leave th^ 

join ; 
And if a man should cry, ' I want a pin, 
' And I must make it straightway, head 

and point,' 
His wisdom is not worth the pin he 

wants. 
Seven men to a pin, — and not a man too 

much I 
Seven generations, haply, to this world, 
To right it visibly a finger's breadth, 
And mend its rents a little. Oh, to storm 
And say, ' I'nis world here i.s intolerable ; 
' I will not eat this corn, nor drink this 

wine, 
' Nor love this woman, flinging her soul 
■ Without a bond lor 't as a lover should, 
' Nor use the generous leave of happiness 
' As not too good for using generously' — 
(Since virtue kindles at the touch of joy, 
Like a man's cheek laid on a woman's 

hand. 
And God, who knows it, looks for quick 
returns 

From joys) to stand and claim to have 

a life 
Beyond the bounds of the individual 

man, 
And raze all personal cloisters of the 

soul 
To build up public stores and magazines. 
As if God's creatures otherwise were lo.st. 
The builder surely saved by any means ! 
To think, — I have a pattern on my nail. 
And I will carve the world new after it. 
And solve so, these hard social ques- 
tions,— nay. 
Impossible social questions, — since their 

roots 
Strike deep in Evil's own existence here. 
Which God permits because the ques- 
tion 's hard 
To abolish evil nor attaint free-will. 
Ay, hard to God, but not to Romney 

Leigh I 
For Romney has a pattern on his nail 
(Whatever may be lacking on the Mount) 
And not being overnice to separate 
What's element from what's convention, 

htstes 
By line on line to draw you out a world, 
Without your help indeed, unless you 

take 
His yoke upon you and will learn of him. 



472 



AURORA LEIGH. 



So much he has to teach I so good a 
world! 

The same, the whole creation's groaning 
for! 

No rich nor poor, no gain nor loss nor 
stint. 

No potage in it able to exclude 

A brother's birthright, and no right of 
birth, 

The potage — both secured to every man. 

And perfect virtue dealt out like the 
rest 

Gratuitously, with the soup at six, 

To whoso does not seek it.' 

' Softly, sir,' 

I interrupted, — ' I had a cousin once 

I held m reverence. If he strained too 
wide. 

It was not to take honour but to give 
help ; 

The gesture was heroic. If his hand 

Accomplished nothing . . (well, it is not 
proved) 

That empty hand thrown impotently cut 

Were sooner caught, 1 think, by One in 
heaven. 

Than many a hand that reaped a har- 
vest in 

And keeps the scythe's glow on it. 
Pray you, then, 

For my sake merely, use less bitterness 

In speaking of my cousin.' 

■ Ah,' he said, 

'Aurora! when the prophet beats the 
ass. 

The angel intercedes.' He shook his 
head — 

' And yet to mean so well and fail so 
foul, 

Expresses ne'er another beast than man ; 

The antithesis H human. Hearken, dear; 

There'll too much abstract willing, pur- 
posing. 

In this poor world. We talk by aggre- 
gates, 

And think by systems.; and, being used 
to face 

Our evils in statistic!, are inclined 

To cap them with unreal remedies 

Drawn out in liaste on the other side the 
slate.' 

•ThTt's triir,' I answnred, fain to throw 

u;, lliought, 



And make a game ort,— yes, we gene- 
ralise 
Enough to please you. If we pray at all, 
We pray no longer for our daily bread. 
But next centenary's harvests. If we 

give, 
Our cup of Water is not tendered till 
We lay down pipes and found a Com- 
pany 
With Branches. Ass or angel, 'tis the 

same : 
A woman cannot do the thing she ought, 
Which means whatever perfect thing 

she can, 
In life, in art, in science, but she fears 
lb let the perfect action take hel" part 
And rest there ; she must prove what 

she can do 
Before she does it,— prate of woman's 

rights. 
Of woman's mission, woman's function, 

till 
The men (who are prating too on their 

side) cry, 
' A woman s function plainly is . . to 

talk.' 
Poor souls, they are very rea.sonably 

vexed ; 
They cannot hear each other speak.' 

' And you, 
An artist, judge so ?' 

' I, an artist, — yes, 
Because, precisely, I'm an artist, sir. 
And woman,— if another sate in sight, 
I'd whisper, — Soft, my sister 1 not a 

wora ! 
By speaking we prove only we can speak ; 
Which he, the man here, never doubted. 

What 
He doubts is whether We can lio tho 

thing 
With decent grace we've not yet done 

at all. 
Now, do it ; bring your statue,^yoti 

have room I 
He'll see it even by the starlight here ; 
And if 'tis e'er so little like the god 
Who looks out from the marble silently 
Along the track of his own shining dart 
Through the dusk of ages,— there's no 

need to speak ; 
The universe shall henceforth spca!; for 

you, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



473 



And witness, ' She who did this thing, 

was born 
To do it. ^claims her license in her 

work.' 
— And so with more works. Who cures 

the plague. 
Though twice a woman, shall be called 

a leech : 
Who right!^ a land'5 finances, is excused 
For touching coppers, though her hands 

be white, — 
But we, we talk !' 

' It is the age's mood,' 
He said ; ' we boast, and do not. We 

JHIt up 
Hostelry signs where'er we lodge a day. 
Some red colossal cow with mighty 

paps 
A Cyclops' fingers could not strain to 

milk ; 
Then bring out presently our saucer-full 
Of curds. We want more quiet in our 

works. 
More knowledge of the bounds in which 

we work ; 
More knowledge that each individual 

man 
Remains an Adam to the general race, 
Constrained to see, like Adam, that he 

keep 
His personal state's condition honestly. 
Or vain all thoughts of his to help the 

world. 
Which still must be developed from its 

one 
If bettered in its many. We indeed. 
Who think to lay it out new like a park. 
We take a work on us which is not 

man's, 
For God alone sits far enough above 
To speculate so largely. None of Us 
(Not Romney Leigh) is mad enough to 

say. 
We'll have a grove of oaks upon that 

slope 
And sink the need of acorns. Govern- 
ment, 
If veritable and lawful, is not given 
By imposition of the foreign hand. 
Nor chosen from a pretty pattern-book 
Of ■'OiTie domestic idealogue who sits 
And coldly chooses empire, where as 

well 



He might republic. Genuine govern- 
ment 
Is but the e.vpression of a nation, good 
Or less good,— even as all society, 
Howe'er unequal, monstrous, crazed, 

and cursed. 
Is but the expression of men's single 

lives, 
The loud sum of the silent units. What, 
We'd change the aggregate and yet 

retain 
Each separate figure ? Whom do we 

cheat by that ? 
Now, not even Romney.' 

' Cousin, you are sad. 

Did all your social labor at Leigh Hall 

And elsewhere, come to nought then ? ' 

' It was nought,' 

He answered mildly. 'There is room 

indeed 
For statues still, in this large world of 

God's, 
But not for vacuums, — so I am not sad : 
Not sadder than is good for what I am. 
My vain phalanstery dissolved itself; 
My men and women of disordered lives, 
1 brought in orderly to dine and sleep, 
Broke up those waxen masks I made 

them to wear. 
With fierce contortions of the natural 

face ; 
And cursed me for my tyrannous con- 
straint 
In forcing crooked creatures to live 

straight ; 
And set the country hounds upon my 

back 
To bite and tear me for my wicked 

deed 
Of trying to do good without the church 
Or even the squires, Aurora. Do you 

mmd 
Your ancient neighbours? The great 

book-club teems 
With 'sketches,' ' summaries,' and 'last 

tracts ' but twelve. 
On socialistic troublers of close bonds 
Betwixt the generous rich and grateful 

poor. 
The vicar preached from ' Revelations,' 

(till 
The doctor woke) and found me with 

' the frogs ' 



474 



AURORA LEIGH. 



On three successive Sundays; ay, and 

stopped 
To weep a little (for he's getting old) 
That such perdition should o'ertake a 

man 
Of such fair acres,— in the pariah, too I 
He printed his discourses ' by request,' 
And if your book shall sell as his did, 

then 
Your verses are less good than I sup- 
pose. 
The women of the neighbourhood sub- 
scribed. 
And scut me a copy bound in scarlet silk, 
Tooled edges, blazoned with the arms of 

Leigh : 
J own that touched me.' 

' What, the pretty ones ? 
Poor Romney I ' 

' Otherwise the effect was small. 
I had my windows broken once or twice 
By liber.il peasants naturally incensed 
At s'.icli a ve.\cr of Arcadian peace. 
Who would not let men call their wives 

their own 
To kick like Britons, and made ob- 
stacles 
When things went smoothly as a baby 

drugged. 
Toward freedom and starvation ; bring- 
ing down 
The wicked London tavern-thieves and 

drabs 
To affront the blessed hillside drabs and 

thieves 
With mended morals, quotha, — fine 

new lives 1— 
My windows paid for't. I was shot at, 

once. 
By an active poacher who had hit a 

hare 
From the other barrel, (tired of springe- 

ing game 
So long upon my acres, undisturbed, 
And restless for the country's virtue, — 

yet 
He missed me) — ay, and pelted very oft 
In riding through the village. ' There 

he goes 
' Who'd drive away our Christian gen- 
tlefolks, 
' 'I'o catc'i us undefended in the trap 
• He baits with poisonous cheese, and 
lock us up 



' In that pernicious prison of Leigh Hall 
' With all his murderers I Give another 

name 
' And say Leigh Hell, and burn it up 

with fire,' 
And so they did at last, Aurora.' 

■ Did?' 

' You never heard it, cousin ? Vincent's 

news 
Came stinted, then.' 

' They did ? they burnt Leigh Hall \ 

' You're sorry, dear Aurora f Yes 

indeed. 
They did it perfectly : a thorough 

work. 
And not a failure, this time. Let us 

grant 
'Tis somewhat easier, though, to burn a 

house 
Than build a system ; — yet that's easy, 

too, 
In a dream. Books, pictures, — ^ay, the 

pictures I what, 
You think your dear Vandykes would 

give them pause ? 
Our proud ancestral Leighs with those 

peaked beards. 
Or bosoms white as foam thrown up on 

rocks 
From the old-spent wave. Such calm 

defiant looks 
They flared up with I now nevermore 

to twit 
The bones in the family-vault with ugly 

death. 
Not one was rescued, save the Lady 

Maud, 
Who threw you down, that morning you 

were born. 
The undeniable lineal mouth and chin 
To wear for ever for her gracious sake ; 
For which good deed I saved her : the 

rest went ; 
And you, you're sorry, cousin. Well. 

for me. 
With all my phalansterians safely out, 
(Poor hearts, they helped the burners, 

it was said. 
And certainly a few clapped hands and 

yelled: 
The ruin did not hurt me as it might. — 
As « hen for instance I w.\s hurt one day 



AUI^O.^A LEIGH. 



475 



A. certain letter being destroyed. In 

fact, 
U o see the great house flare so . . oalceii 

floors, 
Oir fathers made so fine with rushes 

once 
Hefoi-e OLir mothers furbished them with 

trauis. 
Carved wainscoats, panelled walls, the 

favourite slide 
For drainnig offa martyr, (or a rogue) 
The echoing galleries, half a half-mile 

long. 
And all the various stairs that took you 

up 
And took you down, and took you round 

about 
Upon their slippery darkness, recollect. 
All helpuig to keep up one blazing jest ; 
The flames through all the casements 

pushing forth 
Like red-hot devils crinkled into snakes. 
All signifying, — 'Look you, Romney 

Leigh, 
' We save the people from your saving, 

here, 
' Yet so as by fire ! we make a pretty 

show 
' Besides. — and that's the best you've 

ever done.' 

— To see this, almost moved myself to 

clap ! 
The ■ V. le et plaude ' came too with 

effect 
When, in the roof fell, and the fire that 

paused. 
Stunned momently beneath the stroke 

of slates 
And tumbUng rafters, rose at once and 

roared, 
And wrapping the whole house, (which 

disappeared 
Li a mounting whirlwind of dilated 

flame.) 
Blew upward, straight, its drift of fiery 

chaff 
In the face of heaven, . . which blench- 
ed, and ran up higher.' 

' Poor Romney !' 

' Sometimes when I dream,' he said, 
• 1 hear the silence after, 'twas so still. 



For all those wild beasts, yelling, curs- 
ing round. 
Were suddenly silent, while you counted 

five, 
So silent, that you heard a younz bird 

fall 
From the top-nest in the neighbouring 

rookery, 
Through edging over-rashly toward the 

light. 
The old rooks had already fled too far. 
To hear the screech they fled with, 

though you saw 
Some flying still, like scatterings of dead 

leaves 
In autumn-gusts, seen dark against the 

sky : 
All flying, — ousted, like the house of 

Leigh. 

Dear Romney ! 

' Evidently 'twould have been 

A fine sight for a poet, sweet, like you, 

Tomake'the verse blaze after. I myself. 

Even I, felt something in the grand old 
trees. 

Which stood that moment like brute 
Dniid gods 

Amazed upon the rim ofruin. where. 

As intoa blackened socket, the great fire 

Had dropped, — still throwing up splin- 
ters now and then 

To show them grey with all their centu- 
ries. 

Left there to witness that on such a day 

The House went out.' 

• Ah !' 
'While you counted five 
I seemed to feel a little like a Lt-igh, — 
But then it passed, Aurora. A child 

cried, , 

And I had enough to think of what to do 
With all those houseless wretches in the 

dark. 
And ponder where they'd dance the 

ne.\t time, they 
Who had burnt the viol.' 

' Did you think of that ? 
Who burns his viol will not dance, I 

know. 
To cymbals, Romney.' 

' O my sweet sad voice,' 



476 



AURORA LEIGH. 



He cried, — ' O voice that speaks and 

overcomes ! 
The sun is silent, but Aurora speaks.' 

' Alas,' I said ; ' I speak I know not 

what : 
I'm back in childhood, thinking as a 

child, 
A foolish fancy — will it make you smile ? 
I shall not from the window of my room 
Catch sight of those old chimneys any 

more. 

' No more,' he answered. ' If you pushed 

one day 
Through all the green hills to our father's 

house. 
You'd come upon a great charred circle 

where 
The patient earth was singed an acre 

round ; 
With one stone-stair, symbolic of my 

life. 
Ascending, winding, leading up to 

nought ! 
'Tis worth a poet's seeing. Will you 

go?' 

I made no answer. Had I any right 

To weep with this man, that I dared to 
speak ! 

A woman stood between his soul and 
mine. 

And waved us off from touching ever- 
more 

With those unclean white hands of hers. 
Enough. 

We had burnt our viols and were silent. 
So, 

The silence lengthened till it pressed. I 
spoke. 

To breathe :' ' I think you were ill after- 
ward.' 

More ill,' he answered, , ' had been 

scarcely ill. 
I hoped this feeble fumbling at life's 

knot 
Might end concisely, — but I failed to 

die. 
As formerly I failed to live, — and thus 
Grew willing, having tried all othtf 

ways. 



To try just God's. Humility's so good. 
When pride's impossible. Mark us, 

how we make 
Our virtues, cousin, from our worn-out 

sins. 
Which smack of them from henceforth. 

Is It right. 
For instance, to wed here while you 

love there ''. 
And yet because a man sins once, the 

sin 
Cleaves to him, in necessity to sin. 
That if he sinned not so, to damn him- 
self. 
He sins so, to damn others with himself : 
And thus to wed here, loving there, be- 
comes 
A duty. Virtue buds a dubious leaf 
Round mortal brows ; your ivy's better, 

dear. 
— Yet she, 'tis certain, is my very wife. 
The very lamb left mangled by the 

wolves 
Through my own bad shepherding : and 

could 1 choose 
But take her on my shoulder past this 

stretch 
Of rough, uneasy wilderness, poor lamb. 
Poor child, poor child? — Aurora, my 

beloved, 
I will not vex you any more to-night. 
But having spoken what I came to say. 
The rest shall please you. What she 

can in me. — 
Protection, tender liking, freedom, ease. 
She shall have surely, liberally, for her 
And hers, Aurora, Small amends they'll 

make 
For hideous evils which she had not 

known 
E.xcept by me, and for this imminent 

loss. 
This forfeit presence of a gracious friend. 
Which also she must forfeit for my sake. 
Since drop your hand in mine a 

moment, sweet. 
We're parting ! Ah, my snowdrop, 

what a touch. 
As if the wind had swept it off! you 

grudge 
Your gelid sweetness on my palm but 

so, 
A moment? angry, that I could not 

bear 



ALrROKA r.r.icn. 



477 



You . . 5peal{ing, breathing, living, side 
by side 

With some one called my wife . . and 
hve, myself ? 

Nay, be not cruel — you must under- 
stand ! 

Your lightest footfall on a floor of mine 

Would shake the house, my lintel being 
uncrossed 

'Gainst angels : henceforth it is night 
with me. 

And so, henceforth, I put the shutters 

Auroras must not come to spoil my 
dark.' 

He smiled so feebly, with an empty 

hand 
Stretched sideways from me, — as indeed 

he looked 
To any one but me to give him help, — 
And while the moon came suddenly out 

full. 
The double rose of our Italian moons, 
Sufficient plainly for the heaven and 

earth, 
(The stars, struck dumb and washed 

away in dews 
Of glory, and the mountains steeped 
In divine languor) he the man, ap- 
peared 
So pale and patient, like the marble 

man 
'A sculptor puts his personal sadness in 
i'ojoin his grandeur of ideal thought, — 
As if his mallet struck me from my 

height 
Of passionate indignation, I who had 

risen 
Pale, — doubting, paused Was 

Romney mad indeed? 
Had all this wrong of heart made sick 

the brain ? 

Then quiet, with a sort of tremulous 

pride, 
' Go, cousin,' I said coldly ; ' a farewell 
Was sooner spoken 'twixt a pair of 

friends 
In those old days, than seems to suit you 

now. 
Howbeit, since then, I've writ a book 

or two, 



I'm somewhat dull still in the manly art 
Of phrase and metaphrase. Why, any 

man 
Can carve a score of white Loves out of 

snow. 
As Buonarotti in my Florence there. 
And set them on the wall in some safc 

shade. 
As safe, sir, as your marriage ! very 

good : 
Though if a woman took one from the 

ledge 
To put it on the table by her flowers. 
And let it mind her of a certain friend, 
'Twould drop at once,;(so better,) would 

not bear 
Her nail-mark even, where she took it 

up 
A little tenderly ; so best, I say : 
For me. 1 would not touch the fragile 

thing. 
And risk to spoil it half an hour before 
The sun shall shine to melt it : leave it 

there. 
I'm plain at speech, direct in purpose : 

when 
I speak, you'll take the meaning as it is. 
And not allow for puckerings in the silk 
By clever stitches. I'm a woman, sir. 
And use the woman's figures naturally. 
As you the male license. So, I wish 

you well. 
I'm simply sorry for the griefs you've 

had 
And not for your sake only, but man- 
kind's. 
This race is never grateful : from th« 

first. 
One fills their cup at supper with pure 

wine. 
Which back they give at cross-time on 

a sponge, ; 

In vinegar and gall.' 

' If gratefuUer.' 
He murmured, — " by so much less pitia- 
ble ! 
God's self would never have come down 

to die. 
Could man have thanked him for it.' 

' Happily 
'Tis patent that, whatever,' I resumed, 
' You suffered from this thanklessncss 
of men. 



478 



AURORA LEIGH. 



You sink no more than Moses' bulrush- 
boat 
When you once relieved of Moses ; for 
you're light, 

Yo.i're light, my cousin ! which is well 
for yoa. 

And manly. For myself, — now mark 
me, sir. 

They burnt Leigh Hall ; but if, con- 
summated 

To devils, heightened beyond Lucifers, 

They had burnt instead a star or two of 
those 

We saw above there just a moment 
back. 

Before the moon abolished them, — des- 
troyed 

And riddled them in ashes through a 
sieve 

On the head of the foundering uni- 
verse. — what then? 

If yo I and I remained still you and I, 

It could not shift our places as mere 
friends. 

Nor render decent you should toss a 
phrase 

Biyoiid the point of actual feeling! — 
nay, 

Yo 1 shall not interrupt me : as you said. 

We're parting. Certainly, not once or 
twice 

To-night you've mocke 1 me somewhat, 
or yourself. 

And I. at least, have not deserved it so 

That I should meet it unsurprised. But 
now, 

E'lo igh : we're parting . . parting. 
Cousin Leigh, 

I wish yoa well through all the acts of 
life 

Aud life's relations, wedlock not the 
least, 

An J It shall ' please me,' in your words, 
to know 

Yo'j yield your wife, protection, free- 
dom, ease. 

And very tender liking. May you live 

S) happy with her, Romney, that your 
friends 

May praise her for it. Meantime some 
of us 

Are wholly dull in keeping ignorant 

Of what she has suffered by you, ; nd 
what debt 



Of sorrow your rich love sits down to 

pay : 
But it 'tis sweet for love to pay its debt, 
'lis sweeter .still for love to give its gilt. 
And you, be liberal in the sweeter way. 
You can, I think. At least, as touches 

me. 
You owe her, cousin Romney, no 

amends. 
She is not used to hold my gown .so fast, 
You need entreat her now to let it go : 
The lady never was a friend of mine. 
Nor capable, — I thought you knew as 

much, — 
Of losing for your sake so poor a prize 
As such a worthless friendship. Be con- 
tent. 
Good cousin, therefore, both for her and 

you ! 
I'll never spoil your dark, nor dull your 

noon. 
Nor vex you when you're merry, or at 

rest : 
You shall not need to put a shutter up 
To keep out this Aurora, — though your 

north 
Can make Auroras which vex nobody, 
Scarce known from night, I fancied ! let 

me add, 
My larks fly higher than some windows. 

Well, 
You've read your Leighs. Indeed 

'twould shake a house. 
If such as I came in with outstretched 

hand 
Still warm and thrilling from the clasp 

of one . . 
Of one we know, . . to acknowledge, 

palm to palm, . 
As mistress there . . the Lady Walde- 

mar.' 

' Now God be with us ' . . with a sudden 

clash 
Of voice he interrupted — ' what name's 

that? 
You spoke a name, Aurora.' 

' Pardon me ; 
I would that, Romney, I could name 

your wife 
Nor wound you, yet be worthy.' 

' Are we mad ?' 
He echoed — 'wife! mine! Lady Wal» 

demar ! 



AURORA LEIGH. 



479 



I think you said ray wife.' He sprang 

to his feet, 
And threiv his noble head back toward 

the moo.i 
As on 3 who swims against a stormy sea, 
And laughed with such a helpless, hope- 

les; scorn, 
I stood and trembled. 

'May God judge mc so,' 
He said at last, — ' 1 came convicted 

here, 
And humbled sorely if not enough. I 

came. 
Because this woman from her crystal 

soul 
Had shown me something which a man 

calls light : 
Because too, formerly, I sinned by her 
As then and ever since I have, by Cod, 
Throiigli arrogance of nature, — though I 

loved . . 
Whom best, I need not say, . . since that 

is writ 
Too plainly in the book of my misdeeds: 
And thus I came here to abase myself. 
And fasten, kneeling, on her regent 

brows 
A garland which I startled thence one 

day 
Of her beautiful June-youth. But here 

again 
I'm baffled ! — fail in my abasement as 
My aggrandisement : there's no room 

left for me 
At any woman's foot who misconceives 
My nature, purpose, possible actions. 

What ! 
Are you the Aurora who made large my 

dreams 
To fram-^ your greatness ? you conceive 

so small ? 
You stand so less than woman, through 

being more. 
And lose your natural instinct, like a 

beast. 
Through intellectual culture t since in- 
deed 
I di not think that any common she 
Would dare adopt such monstrous for- 
geries 
For the legible life -signature of such 
As 1, with all my blots : with all my 

blots! 



At last then, peerless cousin, we are 

peers — 
At last we're even. Ah, you've left 

your height, 
And here upon my level we take hands, 
And here I reach you to forgive you, 

sweet. 
And that's a fall, Aurora. Long ago 
You seldom understood me, — but before, 
I could not blame you. Then, you only 

seemed 
So high above, you could not see be- 
low ; 
But now I breathe, — but now I pardon ! 

— nay. 
We're parting. Dearest, men have 

burnt my house. 
Maligned my motive.s, — but not one, I 

swear. 
Has wronged my soul as this Aurora has. 
Who called the Lady Waldemar my 

wife. 

'Not married to her ! yet you said ' . . 

' Again ? 
' Nay, read the lines ' (he held a letter 

out) 
' She sent you through me.' 

By the moonlight there, 
I tore the meaning out with passionate 

haste 
Much rather than I read it. Thus it 

ran. 



NINTH BOOK. 

Even thus. I pause to write it out at 

length, 
The letter of the Lady Waldemar. 

' I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you 

this. 
He says he'll do it. After years of love, 
Or what is called so, — when a woman 

frets 
And fools upon one string of a man's 

name. 
And fingers it for ever till it breaks, — 
He may perhaps do for her such thing, 
And she accept it without detriment 
Althouc;h she should not love him any 

more. 



4So AURORA 


LEIGH. 


And I, who do not love him, nor love 


Although the world had jeered me prop- 


yoii. 


erly 


Nor yon, Aurora, — choose yon sliall re- 


For taking up with Cupid at liis worst. 


jient 


The stiver quiver woiii off on lii.s ban-. 


Vonr most nn;;racious letter and confess, 


' No, no,' he iiuu inured, 'no, bhe loves 


Constrained by liis convictions, (he's 


me not ; 


convinced) 


' Aurora Leigli does better: bring her 


You ve wronged me foully. Are you 


book 


made so ul. 


■ And read it softly. Lady Waldemar, 


You woman— to impute snch ill to me ? 


'Until 1 thank your fricndbliip more for 


We both liad mothers, — lay in their 


that 


bosom once. 


' Tlian even for liarder service.' So I 


And, after all, I thank you, Atuora 


read 


Leiiah, 


Your book, Aurora, for an hour that 


For proving to mvself that there are 


day: 


things 


I kept iis pluses, marked its emphasis ; 


I would not do, . . not for my life. . 


My voice, empaled upon its hooks of 


nor him . . 


rhyme. 


Though Kometliing I have somewhat 


Not once would writhe, nor quiver, nor 


overdone,— 


revolt ; 


For instance, when I went to see the 


I read on calmly, — calmly sl'ut it up. 


gods 


Observing, 'There's some merit in the 


One morning on Olympus, with a step 


book ; 


That shook tlie thunder from a certahi 


' And yet tite merit in't is thrown away 


Clond. 


'As chances still with women if we 


Committing myself vilely. Conld 1 think, 


write 


The Muse 1 pulled my lieart out from 


' Or write not: we want siring to tie our 


my breast 


flowers. 


To sotten, 1-ad lierself a sort of heart, 


' So diop them as we walk, which serves 


And loved my mortal? He, at least 


to sl.ow 


loved her, 


' The way we went. Good morning, 


I heard him say so ; 'twas my recom- 


Mister Leigli ; 


pense. 


'You 11 find another reader the next 


When, watchinc at his bedside fourteen 


time. 


days, 


' A woman who does better than to love, 


He broke out like a flame at wliiles 


' I hate ; she will do nothing very well : 


Between the heats of fever . . ' Is it ihoii ? 


' Male poets are preferable, straining 


' Breathe closer, sweetest mouth ! ' and 


less 


when at last 


'And teaching more.' I triumphed o'er 


The fever gone, the wasted face extinct 


you both. 


As if it irked bim much to know me 


And left him. 


there. 


' When T saw him afterward. 


He said, ' 'Twas kind, 'twas good, 'twas 


I had read vour shameful letter, and my 


womanly,' 


heart. 


(And fifty praises to excuse no love) 


He came with health recovered, strong 


' But was llie picture safe lie liad ven- 


though pale. 


tured for ? ' 


Lord Howe and he, a corteous pair of 


And then, half wandering . . ' I have 


friends. 


loved her well. 


To say what men dare say to women, 


' Although she could not love me.' — 


when 


' Say instead.' 


Their debtors. But I stopped them with 


I answered, ' she does love you.' — 'Twas 


a word. 


my turn 


And proved I had never trodder. such a 


To rave : I would have married him so 


road 


cliauged, 


To carry so much dirt upon my shoe. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



48. 



Then, putting into it soinething of dis- 
dain. 

1 asKed forsooth his pardon, and my 
own. 

For h.iving done no better than to love. 

And iliat not wisely,— ilioiigh 'twas long 
ago. 

And liad been mended radically since. 

1 10. d him, as I tell you now Miss 
Leii;li, 

And proved I took some trouble for his 
sake 

(Because I knew he did not love the 

8''''.) 
To spoil my hands with working in the 

stream 
Of that poor bubbMng nature,' — till she 

went. 
Consigned to one I trusted, my own 

maid. 
Who once liad lived full five months in 

my house, 
(Dressed liair superbly) with a lavish 

purse 
To carry to Australia where phe had left 
A husband, said she. Jt the creature 

lied. 
The mission failed, we all do fail and lie 
More or less — and I'm sorry— which is 

all 
Expected from us when we fail the most 
And go to church to own it. What I 

meant. 
Was just the best for him, and me, and 

her . . 
Best even for Marian ! — I am sorry for't, 
And very sorry. Yet my creature said 
She saw lier stop to speak in Oxford 

Street 
To one . . no matter ! I had sooner cut 
My hand off (though 'twere kissed the 

hour before, 
And promised a Duke's troth-ring for 

the next) 
Than crush her silly head with so much 

wrong. 
Poor child ! I would have mended it 

with gold, 
Until it gleamed like St. Sophia's dome 
When all the laiihful troop to morning 

prayer : 
But he, he nipped the bud of such a 

thought 
With that cold Leigh look which I fan- 
cied once, 



And broke in, ' Hencefonh she was called 

his wile. 
'His VMie required no succour : he was 

bound 
' 'I'o l-loieiice, to resume this broken 

b(Mid: 
' Enough so. Both were happy, he and 

H ow e, 
' To acquit me of the heaviest charge o( 

all-' 
—At which I shut mv tongue against mj 

fly 

And struck liim ; 'Would he carry, — he 

was just, 
' A letter lioin me to Aurora Leigh, 
' And latity from jiis authentic n.outh 
' My answer to her accusation.'' — ' Yes, 
' If such a letter were prepared in time.' 
— He's just, your cousin, — ay, abhor- 
rently. 
He'd wash his hands in blood to keep 

them clean, 
And so, cold, courteous, a mere gentle- 
man, 
He bowed, we parted. 

' Parted. Face no more. 
Voice no more, love no more ! wiped 

wholly out 
Like some ill scholar's scrawl from heart 

and slate. — 
Ay, spit on and so wiped out utterly 
By some coarse scholar ! I have been 

too coarse, 
Too human. Have we business, in our 

rank, 
With blood i' the veins? I will have 

henceforth none. 
Not even to keep the colour at my lip. 
A rose is pink and pretty without blood ; 
Why not a woman? When we've 

played in vain 
The game, to adore, — we have rescnirccs 

still, 
And can play on at leisure, beii 3 

adored : 
Here's Smith already swearing r.t r. v 

feet 
Thnt I'm the typic She. Away wi.li 

Smith ! — 
Smith smacks of Leigli, — and, l.encc- 

forth I'll admit 
No socialist within three crinolines. 
To live and have liis being. But ft-t 

you. 
Though insolent your letter and absurd, 



Ai' 



A [/J? OH A LEIGH. 



And tlioiigli I hate you frankly,— take 
my Stnitli ! 

For when yon Imve seen tliis famous 
nianiage tied, 

A most unspoiled Erie to a noble Leigh, 

(His love astray on one he should not 
love) 

Howbeit you may not want his love, be- 
ware. 

You'll want some comfort. So I leave 
you Smith ; 

Take Smith ! — he talks Leigh's subjects, 
somewhat worse ; 

Adopts a thongiit of Leigh's, and dwin- 
dles it ; 

Goes leagues beyond, to be no inch be- 
hind ; 

Will mind you of him, as a shoe-string 
may 

Of a man : and women, when they are 
made like you. 

Grow tender to a shoe-string, foot-print 
even. 

Adore averted slioulders in a glass, . 

And memories of what, present once, 
was loathed. 

And yet, you loathed not Romney,— 
though you played 

At ' fox and goose' about him with your 
.'ioul : 

Pass over fox, you rub out fox, — ignore 

A feeling, you eradicate it, — the act's 

Identical. 

' 1 wish you joy. Miss Leigh, 
You've made a happy manirge for your 

friend. 
And all ihe honour, well-assorted love. 
Derives from you who love him, whom 

he loves ! , 
You need not wish me jny to think of it, 
1 have so much. Observe, Aurora Leigh, 
Y'our droop of eyelid is the same as his. 
And, but for you, I might have won his 

love. 
And. to you, I have shown my naked 

heart, — 
For which three things I hate, hate, hate 

you. Hush, 
Suppose a fourth ! — I cannot choose but 

think 
That, with liim, 1 were virtuouser than 

1 hate von from this 
gulf 



And hollow of my soul, which opens 

out 
To what, except for you, liad been my 

heaven, 
And is instead, a place to curse by 1 

Love.' 

An active kind of curse. I stood there 

cursed 
Confounded. I had seized and caught 

the sense 
Of the letter with its twenty stinging 

snakes, 
In a moment's sweep of eyesight, and I 

stood 
Dazed. — ' Ah ! — not married ? ' 

' You mistake,' he said, 
' I'm married. Is not Marian Erie my 

wife ? 
As God sees things, I have a wife and 

child; 
And 1, as I'm a man who honours God, 
Am here to claim them as my cliild and 

wife.' 

I felt it hard to breathe, much less to 
speak. • 

Nor word of mine was needed. Some 
one else 

Was there for answering. ' Romney,' 
she began, 

' My great good angel, Romney.' 

Then at first, 

I knew that Marian Erie was beautiful. 

She stood there, still and pallid as a 
saint. 

Dilated, like a saint in ecstacy. 

As if the floating moonshine interposed 

Betwixt her foot and the earth, and raised 
her up 

To float upon it. ' I had left my cliild. 

Who sleeps,' she said, ' and having 
drawn this way 

1 heard you speaking, . . friend ! — Con- 
firm me now. 

You take this Marian, such as wicked 
men 

Have made her, for your horourable 
wife ? ' 

The thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic 

voice. 
He stretched liis arms out toward the 

thrilling voice. 
As if to draw it on to his embrace. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



483 



~-^ I take her as God made her, and as 

men 
Must fail to unmake her, for my lion- 

oured wife.' 

She never raised her eyes, nor took a 

step, 
But stood tliere in her place, and spoke 

again. 
— ' You take this Marian's child, which 

is her shame 
In sight of men and women, for your 

child, 
Of whom you will not ever feel ashamed ? ' 

The thrilling, tender, proud, pathetic 

voice. 
He stepped on toward it, still with out- 
stretched arms. 
As if to cjuench upon his breast that 

voice. 
— ' May God so father me, as I do him, 
And so forsake me as I let him feel 
He's orphaned haply. Here I take the 

child 
To sliare my cup, to slumber on my 

knee. 
To play his loudest gambol at my foot. 
To hold my finger in the public ways. 
Till none shall need inquire, ' Whose 

child is this,' 
The gesture saying so tenderly, ' My 

own.' ' 

She stood a moment silent in her place : 
Then turning toward me very slow and 

cold — 
—'And you. — what say you?^will you 

blame me much, 
If, careful for that outcast child of mine, 
I catch ;liis hand that's stretched to me 

and liim. 
Nor dare to leave him friendless in the 

world 
Where men have stoned me ? Have I 

not the right 
To take so mere an aftermath from life. 
Else found so wholly bare? Or is it 

wrong 
To let your cousin, for a generous bent. 
Put out his ungloved fingers among 

briars 
To set a tumbling bird's nest somewhat 

straight? 



You will not tell him, though we're inno- 
cent 
We are not harmless, . . and that both 

our harms 
Will stick to his good smooth noble life 

like burrs. 
Never to drop off though he shakes the 

cloak ? 
You've been my friend: you will not now 

be his ? 
You've known him that he's worthy of a 

friend. 
And you're liis cousin, lady, after all. 
And therefore more than free to take his 

part. 
Explaining, since the nest is surely 

spoilt. 
And Marian what you know her, — though 

a wife, 
Thf: world would hardly understand her 

case 
Of being just hurt and honest ; while for 

him, 
'Twould ever twit him with his bastard 

child 
And married harlot. Speak, while yet 

there's time : 
You would not stand and let a good 

man's dog 
Turn round and rend him, because his, 

and reared 
Of a generous breed, — and will you let 

his act. 
Because it's generous ? Speak. I'm 

bound to you. 
And I'll be bound by only you, in this ' 
The thrilling solemn voice, so passion- 
less. 
Sustained, yet low, without arise or fall, 
As one who had authority to speak, 
And not as Marian. 

I looked up to feel 
If God stood near me, and beheld his 

lieaven 
As blue as Aaron's priestly robe appealed 
To Aaron when he took it off to die. 
And then I spoke — ' Accept the gift, I 

say, 
My sister Marian, and be satisfied. 
The liand that gives, has still a soul be- 
hind 
Which will not let it quail for having 

given, 
Tliough foolish wordlings talk they know 

not what 



484 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Of what they know not. Roiiiiiey's 

strong enough 
For this ; do you be strong to know he's 

strong : 
He stands on Right's side ; never tlnich 

for liim. 
As it lie stood on tlie other. You'll be 

bound 
By me ? I am a woman of repute ; 
No fly-blow gossip ever specked my life ; 
My name is clean and open as this hand, 
Wliose glove there's not a man dares 

blab about 
As if he had touched it freely. Here's 

my hand 
To clasp your hand, my Marian, owned 

as pure ! 
As pure, — as I'm a woman and a 

Leigh !- 
And, as I'm both, I'll witness to the 

world 
That Romney Leigh is honoured in his 

choice 
Who chooses Marian for his honoured 

wife.' 

Her broad wild woodland eyes shot out a 

liglit: 
Her smile was wonderful for rapture. 

' Thanks, 
My great Aurora.' Forward then she 

sprang. 
And dropping her impassioned spaniel 

head 
With all its brown abandonment of curls 
On Romney's feet, we heard the kisses 

drawn 
riirough sobs upon the foot, upon the 

ground — 
',0 Romney ! O my angel !0 unchanged. 
Though since we've parted I liave passed 

the grave ! 
But Death itself could only better thee. 
Mot change thee \—'rhee I do not ihank 

at all: 
I but thank God who made thee what 

thou art, 
So wholly godlike.' 

When he tried in vain 
To raise her to his embrace, escaping 

thence 
As any leaping fiwn from a huntsman's 

grasp 
She boinided off and 'lighted bevond 

reach, 



Before him with a staglike majesty 
Ot soft, serene defiance, — as she knew 
He couid not touch lier, so was tolerant 
He h.id cared to try. She stood there 

with her great 
Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, and 

strange sweet smiie 
That lived through all, as if one held a 

light 
Across a waste of waters, — shook her 

head 
To keep some thoughts down deeper in 

her toul,— 
Then, white and tranquil like a sunnner- 

cloud 
Which, having lained itself to a tardy 

peace. 
Stands still in lieaven as if it ruled the 

day. 
Spoke out again — ' Although, my gener- 
ous triend. 
Since last we met and parted you're im- 

changed, 
And, having promised faith to Mari.in 

Erie, 
Maintain it, as she were not changed at 

all; 
And though that's worthy, though that's 

full of balm 
To any conscious spirit of a girl 
Who once has loved you as I loved you 

once, — 
Yet still it will not make her . . if she's 

dead, 
And gone away where none can give or 

take 
In marriage, — able to revive, return 
And wed you, — will it Romney ? Here's 

the point ; 
O friend, we'll see it plainer: you and I 
Must never, never, never join hands so. 
Nay, let me say it, — for I said it first 
To God, and placed it, rounded to an 

oath. 
Far. far above ilie moon there, at His 

feet. 
As surely as I wept just now at yours, — 
We never, never, never join hands so. 
And now, be patient with me; do not 

think 
I'm speaking from a false humility. 
I'he truth is, I am grown so proud with 

grief 
And He lias said so often through his 

nights 



AURORA LEIGH. 



♦8s 



And through his mornings, ' Weep a 

little still, 
' Thou ioolish Marian, because women 

must. 
' But do not blush at all except for sin.' — 
That I, who telt myself unwoithy once 
Of virtuous Romuey and his high-born 

race, 
Have come to learn, . . a woman poor 

or rich, 
Despised or honoured, is a human soul : 
And wliat her soul is,--tliat, she is her- 
self. 
Although she should be spit upon of 

men. 
As is the pavement of the churches 

liere. 
Still good enough to pray in. And be- 
ing chaste 
And honest, and inclined to do the 

right. 
And love the truth, and live my life out 

green 
And smooth beneath his steps, I should 

not fear 
To make him thus a less uneasy time 
Than many a happier woman. Very 

proud 
You see me. Pardon, that I set a trap 
'I'o hear a confiunation in your voice . . 
Both yoms and yours. It is so good to 

know 
'Twas really God who said the same be- 
fore : 
For thus it is in heaven, that first God 

speaks, 
And then his angels. Oh, it does me 

good. 
It wipes me clean and sweet from devil's 

dirt. 
That Romney Leigh should think me 

worthy still 
Of being his true and honourable wife I 
Henceforth I need not say, on leaving 

earth, 
I had o glory in it. For the rest, 
The reason's ready (master, angel, 

friend. 
Be patient with me) wherefore you and I 
Can never, never, never join hands so. 
1 know you'll not be angry like a man 
(¥ or you are none) when I shall tell the 

triith, 
Which is, I do not love you, Romney 
Leigh. 



I do not love you. Ah well ! catch my 

hands, 
Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes with 

yours, — 
I swear I do not love him. Did I once.' 
'Tis said that women liave been bruised 

to death, 
And yet, if once they loved, that love of 

theirs 
Could never be drained out with all their 

blood : 
I've heard such things and pondered. 

Did I indeed 
Love once ? or did I only worship ? 

Yes, 
Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high 
Above all actual good or hope o I good 
Or fear of evil, all that could be mine, 
I haply set you above love itself 
And out of reach of these poor women's 

arms. 
Angelic Romney. What was in my 

thought ? 
To be your slave, your lielp, your toy, 

your tool. 
To be your love . . I never thought of 

that. 
To give you love . . still less. I gave 

you love ? 
I think I did not give you anything ; 
1 was but only yours,- — upon my knees. 
All yours, in soul and body, in head 

and heart, 
A creature you had taken from the 

ground. 
Still crumbling through your fingers to 

your feet 
To join the dust she came from. Did I 

love. 
Or did 1 worship' judge, Aurora Leigli ! 
Hut, if indeed { loved, 'twas long ago, — 
So long ! before the sun and moon were 

made, 
Before the hells were open, — ah. before 
I heard my child cry in llie desert night, 
And knew he had no father. It may 

be 
I'm "not as strong as other women arc. 
Who, torn and crushed, are i.ot undone 

from love. 
It may be, I am colder than the dead, 
Who, being dead, love always. L'nt foi 

me 
Once killed, . . this ghost of Marian 
loves no more, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



No more . . except the cliikl ! . . no 

more at all. 
I told your cousin, sir. that I was dead ; 
And now, she thinks I'll get up from my 

grave, 
And wear my chin-cloth for a wedding 

veil. 
And glide along the churchyard like a 

bride. 
While all the dead keep whispering 

througli tlie withes, 
' You would be better in your place witli 

us, 
' You pitiful corruption ! ' At the 

thought. 
The damps breaks out on me like lep- 
rosy 
Although I'm clean. Ay, clean as Ma- 
rian Erie : 
As Marian Leigh, I know, I were i>ot 

clean : 
I have not so much life that I should 

love. 
. . Except the child. Ah God! I could 

not bear 
To see my darling on a good man's 

knees 
And know by such a look, or such a 

sigh. 
Or sucii a silence, that he thought some- 
times, 
' This child was fathered by some cursed 

wretch ' . . 
For, Romney, — angels are less tender- 
wise 
Than God and mothers : even you 

would think 
What we think never. He is ours, the 

cnild ; 
And we would sooner vex a soul in 

heaven 
By coupling with it the dead body's 

thought. 
It left behind it in q last month's grave, 
Than, in my child, see other than . . 

my child. 
We only, never call him fatherless 
Who has God and his mother. O my 

babe, 
My pretty, pretty blossom, an ill-wind 
Once blew upon my breast ! can any 

think 
I'd have another, — one called happier, 
A fatliered child, with father's love and 

race 



That's worn as bold and open as n smile. 
To vex my darling when he's asked his 

name 
And has no answer? What! a hawiier 

child 
Than mine, my best, — who laughed so 

loud to-night 
He could not sleep for pastime? Nay, 

I swear 
By li!e and love, that, if I lived like 

some, 
And loved like . . some . . ay, loved 

you, Romney Leigh, 
As some love (eyes that have wept so 

much, see clear) 
I've room for no more children in my 

arms. 
My kisses are all melted on one mcutli, 
I would not ]iush my darling to a .stool 
To dandle babies. Here's a hand shall 

keep 
For ever clean without a marriage-ring. 
To tend my boy until he cease to need 
One steadying finger of it, and desert 
(Not miss) his mother's lap, to sit with 

men. 
And when I miss him (not he me) I'll 

come 
And say, ' Now give me some of Rom- 

ney's work. 
To help your outcast orphans of the 

world. 
And comfort grief with grief 1 or you, 

meantime, 
Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife. 
And open on each other your great 

souls, — 
I need rot farther bless you. If I dared 
But strain and touch her in her ujiper 

sphere 
And say. ' Come down to Romney — pay 

my debt ! ' 
I should be joyful with the stream of 

joy 
Sent through me. But the moon is in 

my face . . 
I dare not. — though I guess the name 

he loves ; 
I'm learned with my studies of old days, 
Remembering how he crushed his under- 

hp 
When some one came and spoke, oi did 

not come : 
Aurora, I could touch her with my hand. 
And fly, because I dare not.' 



AURORA 


LEIGH. 487 


She was gone. 


To creak i' the wind and drive the world- 


He imiled so sternly that I spoke in 


crows off 


in haste. 


From pecking in her garden. Straw can 


' Forgive her — she sees clearlv for her- 


fill 


self: 


A ho'e to keep out vermin. Now, ?.\. 


Her instinct's holy.' 


last, 




I own heaven's angels round her life 


' / forgive? ' he said, 


suffice 


' I only marvel how she sees so sure, 


To fight the rats of our society. 


While others ' . . there he paused, — 


Without this Roniney : I can see at 


then hoarse, abrupt, — 


last ; 


' Aurora, you forgive us, her and me ? 


And here is ended my pretention which 


For her, the thin^ she sees, poor loyal 


The most pretended. Over-proud of 


child, 


course. 


If once corrected by the thing I know, 


Even so !— but not so stupid . . blind 


Had been unspoken, since she loves you 


. . that I, 


well, 


Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the 


Has leave to love you : — while for me, 


world 


alas. 


Has set to meditate mistaken work, 


If once or twice I let my heart escape 


My dreary face against a dim blank wall 


This night, . . remember, where hearts 


Througliout man's natural lifetime,— 


slip and fall 


couid pretend 


They break beside: we're parting, — • 


Or wish . . love, I have loved you ! 


parting, — ah. 


my soul, 


You do not love, that you should surely 


I have lost you ! — but I swear by all 


know 


yourself. 


What that word means. Forgive, be 


And all you might have been tome these 


tolerant ; 


years 


It had not been, but that I felt myself 


If that June-morning had not failed my 


So safe in impuissance and despair, 


hope, — 


I could not hurt you though I tossed my 


I'm not so bestial, to regret that day 


arms 


This night. — this night, which still to 


And sighed my soul out. The most 


you is fair ; 


utter wretch 


Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest 


Will choose his postures when he comes 


Those =-tars above us which I cannot 


to die, 


see' . . . 


However in the presence of a queen : 




. And you'll forgive me some unseemly 


' You cannot.' . . 


spasms 


' That if Heaven itself should stoop. 


Which meant no more than dying. Do 


Remix the lots, and give me another 


you think 


chance. 


I had ever come here in my perfect 


I'd say, ' No other ! ' — I'd record my 


mind. 


blank. 


Unless I had come here in my settled 


Aurora never should be wife of mine.' 


mind 


' Not see the stars?' 


Bound Marian's, bound to keep the bond 


' 'Tis worse still, not to see 


and give 


To find your hand, although we're part- • 


My name, my house, my hand, the 


iiig, dear. 


things I could. 


A moment let me hold it ere we part ; 


To Marian ? For even / could give as 


And understand my last words- these at 


much : 


last! 


Even I, affronting her exalted soul 


I would not have you thinking when I'm 


By a supposition that she wanted these. 


gone 


Could act the husband's coat and hat set 


That Romney dared to hanker for your 


up 


love 



AURORA LEIGH. 



In thoiiglit or vision, if attainable, 
(Which certainly for me it never was) 
And wished to use it for a dog to-dav. 
To help the blind man stumbling. God 

forbid ! 
And now I know he held you in his 

palm, 
And Uept you open-eyed to all my faults, 
To save you at last from such a dreary 

end. 
Believe me, dear, that if I had known 

like Him 
What loss was coming on me, I had 

done 
As well in this as He has.— Farewell 

you 
Who are still my light, — farewell ! How 

late it is: 
I know that, now : you've been too pa- 
tient, sweet. 
I will but blow my whistle toward the 

lane. 
And some one comes . . the same who 

brought me here. 
Get in — Good night.' 

' A moment. Heavenly Christ ! 
A moment. Speak once, Ronuiey. 'Tis 

not true. 
I hold your hands, I look into your 

face - 
You see me ? ' 

' No more than the blessed stars. 
Be blessed too, Aurora. Nay, my 

sweet, 
You tremble. Tender-hearted ! Do 

you mind 
Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat old 

John, 
And let the mice out slilyfrom his traps, 
Until he marvelled at the soul in mice 
Which look the cheese and left the 

snare ? The same 
Dear soft lieart always ! 'Twas for this 

I grieved 
, Howe's letter never reached you. Ah, 
I you had heard 

Of illness, — not the issue . . not the 

extent : 
My life long sick with tossings up and 

down, 
'i'he sudden revulsion in the blazing 

house, 
'J'he strain and struggle both of body 

and soul, [blood ; 

Which left tire rinniing in my veins for 



Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the 
falling beam 

Which nicked me on the forehead as I ' 
passed 

The gallery-door with a burden. Say 
heaven's bolt. 

Not William Erie's, not Marian's fa- 
ther's, — tramp 

And poacher, whom I found for what he 
was. 

And, eager for her sake to rescue him, 

Forth swept from the open highway of 
the world, 

Road-cUist and all, — till like a woodland 
boar 

Most naturally unwilling to be tamed, 

He notched me with his tooth. But not 
a word 

To Marian ! and I do not think, be- 
sides. 

He turned the tilting of the beam my 
way,— 

And if he laughed, as many svifear, poor 
wretch. 

Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so deep. 

We'll hope his next laugh may be mer- 
rier, 

In a better cause.' 

' Blind, Romney ?' 

' Ah, my friend. 

You'll learn to say it in a cheerful voice. 

I, too, at first desponded. I'o be blind, 

Turned out of nature, mulcted as a man, 

Refused the daily largesse of the snu 

To humble creatures ! When the fever's 
heat 

Dropped from me, as the flame did from 
my house, 

And left me ruined like it, stripped of all 

the hues and shapes of aspectable life, 

A mere bare blind stone ni the blaze of 
day, 

A man, upon the outside of the earth. 

As dark as ten feet under, in thegrave, — 

Why that seemed hard.' 

' No hope ?' 

' A tear ! you weep. 

Divine Aurora? tears upon my hand ! 

I've seen you weeping tor a mouse, a 
bird.— 

But, weep for me, Aurora? Ves, there's 
hope. 

Not hope of sight, — I could be learned, 
dear, [name 

And tell you in what Greek and Latin 



AURORA LEIGH. 



489 



The visual nerve is withered to the root, 
Though the outer eyes appear indiffer- 
ent, 
Unspotted in tlieir chrystals. But there's 

hope. 
The spirit, from behind (his dethroned 

sense, 
Sees, waits in patience till the walls 

break up 
From which the bas-relief and fresco 

have dropt : 
There's hope. The man here, once so 

arrogant 
And restless, so ambitious, for his part, 
Of dealing with statistically packed 
Disorders, (from a pattern on his nail,) 
And packing such things quite another 

way, — 
Is now contented. From his personal 

loss 
He has come to hope for others when 

they lose, 
And wear a gladder faith in wliat we 

gain . . 
Through bitter experience, compensation 

sweet, 
Like that tear, sweetest. I am quiet 

now. 
As tender surely for the suffering world, 
But quiet, — sitting at the wall to learn. 
Content lienceforth to do the thing I 

can : 
For, though as powerless, said I, as a 

stone, 
A stone can still give shelter to a worm. 
And it is worth while being a stone for 

that: 
There's hope, Aurora.' 

' Is there hope for me? 
Forme?— and is there room beneath the 

stone 
For such a worm ? — And if I came and 

said . . 
What all this weeping scarce will let me 

say, 
And yet what women cannot say at all 
But weeping bitterly . . (the pride keeps 

."P' 
Until the heart breaks under it) . . I 

love, — 
I love you, Romney' . . 

' Silence ! ' he exclaimed. 
'A woman's pity sometimes makes her 

mad. [soul 

A mail's distraction must not cheat his 



To take advantage of it. Yet, 'tis liard — 
Farewell, Aurora.' 

' But I love you, sir : 
And when a woman says she loves a 

man, 
The man must hear her, though he 

love her not. 
Which . . luish ! . . he has leave to 

answer in his turn ; 
She will not surely blame him. As for 

me. 
You call it pity, — think I'm generous? 
'Twere somewhat easier, for a woman 

proud 
As I am, and I'm very vilely prond, 
To let it pass as such, and press on you 
Love born of pity, — seeing ihat excellent 

loves 
Are born so, often, nor the quick.isr die, 
And this would set me higher by the 

head 
Than now I stand. No matter: let the 

truth 
Stand high ; Aurora must be humble : 

no. 
My love's not pity merely. Obviously 
I'm not a generous woman, never was. 
Or else, of old, I had not looked so near 
To weights and measures, grudging \ou 

the power 
To give, as first I scorned your power to 

judge 
For me, Aurora : I would have no gifts 
Forsooth, but God's, — and I would use 

ihetit too 
According to my pleasure and my choice, 
As He and I were equals,— you below, 
Excluded from iliat level of interchange 
Admitting benefaction. You were wrong 
In much ? you said so. I was wrong in 

most. 
Oh, most ! You only though to rescue 

men 
By half-means, lialf-way, seeing liaT 

their wants, 
While thinking nothing of your personal 

gain. 
But 1 who saw the human nature broad 
At both sides, comprehending too the 

soul's. 
And all the high necessities of Art, 
Betrayed the thing I saw, and wronged 

my own life 
For which I pleaded. Passioned to 

exalt 



490 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The artist's instinct in me at the cost 

Of putting down the woman's— I forgot 
' No perfect artist is developed here 

From any imperfect woman. Flower 
from root, 

And spiritual from natural, grade by 
grade 

In all our life. A handful of the earth 

To make God's image ! the despised 
poor earth. 

The healthy odorous earth, — I missed, 
with it. 

The divine Breath that blows the nos- 
trils out 

To ineffable inflatus: ay, the breath 

Which love is. Art is much, but Love is 
more. 

Art, my Art, thou'rt much, but Love 

is more ! 
Art symbolises heaven, but Love is God 
And makes heaven. L Aurora, fell from 

mine : 

1 would not be a woman hke the rest, 
A simple woman who believes in love 
And owns the right of love because she 

loves, 
And. hearing she's beloved, is satisfied 
With what contents God : I must ana- 
lyst, 
Confront, and question ; just as if a fly 
Refused to warm itself in any sun 
Till such was hi leone : I must fret 
Forsooth, because the month was only 

May ■. 
Be faithless of the kind of proffered love, 
And captious, lest it miss my dignity. 
And scornful, that my lover sougiit a 

wife 
To use . . to use ! O Romney, O my 

love, 
I am changed since then, changed 

wholly, — for indeed 
If now you'd stoop so low to take my 

love, 
And use it roughly, without stint or 

spare. 
As men use common things with more 

behind, 
(And, in this, ever would be more be- 

hnid) 
To any mean and ordinary end, — 
The joy would set me like a star, in 

heaven. 
So high up, I should slime because of 

height 



And not of virtue. Yet in one respect, 
Just one, beloved, I am in no wise 

changed : 
I love you, loved you . . loved you first 

and last. 
And love you on for ever. Now I know 
1 loved you always, Romney. Slie who 

died 
Knew that, and said so; Lady Walde- 

mar 
Knows that ; . . and Marian : I had 

known the same 
Except that I was prouder than I knew. 
And not so honest. Ay, and as I live, 
I should have died so, crushing in my 

hand 
This rose of love, the wasp inside and 

all. 
Ignoring ever to my soul and you 
Both rose and pain, — except for this 

great loss. 
This great despair. — to stand before your 

face 
And know you do not see me where I 

stand. 
You think, perhaps, I am not changed 

from pride. 
And that I chiefly bear to say such 

words 
Because you cannot shame me with your 

eyes ? 

calm, grand eyes, extinguished in a 

storm. 
Blown out like lights o'er melancholy 

seas. 
Though shrieked for by ihe shipwrecked, 

— O my Dark, 
My Cloud, — to go before me every day 
While I go ever toward the wilderness, — 

1 would that you could see me bare to 

the soul ! 
If this be pity, 'tis so for myself. 
And not for Romney ; he can stand 

alone ; 
A man like hhn is never overcome : 
No woman like me. counts him pitiable 
While saints applaud him. He niisiook 

tlie world : 
But I mistook my own heart,— and that 

slip 
Was fatal. Romney, — will you leave me 

here? 
So wrong, so proud, so weak, so 'neon- 

soled. 
So mere a woman ! — and I love you so, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



49 « 



I love you, Romney.' 

Could t see his face, 
I wept so ? Did I drop against his 

breast. 
Or did his arms constrain me? Were 

my cheeks 
Hot, overflooded, with my tears, or his ? 
And which of ouf two large explosive 

hearts 
So shook me? That, I know not. There 

were words 
That broke in utterance . . melted, in 

the fire ; 
Embrace, that was convulsion, . . then 

a kiss 
As long and silent as the ecstatic night. 
And deep, deep, shuddering breaths, 

which meant beyond 
Whatever could be told by word or kiss. 

But what he said . . I have written day 

by day. 
With somewhat even writing. Did I 

think 
That such a passionate rain would inter- 
cept 
And dash tills last page ? What he said, 

indeed, 
1 fain would write it down here like the 

rest 
To keep it in my eyes, as in my ears. 
The heart's sweet scripture, to be read 

at night 
When weary, or at morning when afraid, 
And lean my heaviest oath on when I 

swear 
That when all's done, all tried, all count- 
ed here. 
All great arts, and all good philosophies. 
Tills love just puts Us hand out in a 

dream. 
And straight outstretches all things. 

What he said, 
I fain would write. But if an angel spoke 
In thunder, should we, haply know much 

more 
Than that it thundered? If a cloud 

came down 
And wrapt us wholly, could we draw its 

shape, 
As if on the outside and not overcome? 
And so he spake. His breath against 

my face 
Confused his words, yet made them more 

intense, — 



As when the sildden finger of the wii.d 
Will wipe a row of single city-lanij s 
To a pure white line of flame, more 

luminous 
Because of obliteration ; more intense. 
The intimate presence carrying in itself 
Complete cominunication, as with souls 
Who, having put the body off, perceive 
Through simply being. Thus, 'twfis 

granted me 
To know he loved me to the depth and 

height 
Of such large natures, ever competent 
With grand horizons by the sea or land. 
To love's grand sunrise. Small spheres 

liold small fires: 
But he loved largely, as a man can love 
Who, baffled in his love, dares live liis 

life. 
Accept the ends which God loves for 

his own. 
And lift a constant aspect. 

From the day 
I brought to England my poor searching 

face 
(An orphan even of my father's grave) 
He had loved me, watched me, watched 

jiis soul ill mine, 
Which in me grew and heightened into 

love. 
For he, a boy still, had been told the 

tale 
Of how a fairy bride from Italy, 
With smells of oleanders in her hair. 
Was coming through the vines to touch 

his hand ; 
Whereat the blood of boyhood on the 

palm 
Made sudden heats. And when at last I 

came. 
And lived before him, lived, and rarely 

smiled. 
He smiled and loved me for the thing I 

was. 
As every child will love the year's first 

flower, 
(Not certainly the fairest of the year. 
But, in which, the complete year seems 

to blow) 
The poor sad snowdrop, — grov^ing be- 
tween drifts. 
Mysterious medium 'Iwixt the plant and 

frost. 
So faint with winter while so quick with 

spring, 



4ga 



AUKOKA LEIGH. 



So doubtful if to tliaw itself nway 
Willi ili.it Aiiiivv :iear it. Not ilmt Koni- 

iiey l.i;ij:li 
Had lovcj lue coldly. If I ihouglit so 

once, 
It was as if I liaci held my liand in fire 
And shook for cold. But now 1 under- 
stood 
For ever, that the very fire and lieat 
Of troubling pasbion in him burned liini 

clear, 
And shaped to dubious order, word and 

act. 
That, just because lie loved ine over all, 
All wer.lih. all lands, all social privilege, 
To which chance made him unexpected 

heir. 
And, just because on all these lesser 

gifts. 
Constrained by conscience and the sense 

of wrong 
He had stamped with steady hand God's 

arrow-mark 
Of dedication to the human need. 
He thought it should be so too, witli his 

love ! 
He, passionately loving, would bring 

down 
His love, his life, his best, (because the 

best) 
His bride of dreams, who walked so still 

and high 
Through flowery poems as through 

meadow-grass. 
The dust of golden lilies on her feet, 
That she should walk beside him on the 

rocks 
In all that clang and hewing out of men. 
And help the work of lielp which was 

his life. 
And prove he kept back nothing, — not 

his soul. 
And when I failed him,— for I failed 

him, 1 — 
And when it seemed he had missed my 

love, — he thought, 
' .'\urora makes room for a working- 
noon ; ' 
And so, sel.'"girded with torn strips of 

hone, 
Took uji his life as if it were for death, 
(fust cipable of one heroic aim.) 
And threw it in the thickest of the world, 
^t which men lauglied as if he had 
drowned .1 dog. 



No wonder,— since Aurora failed him 

fust! 
'J'he morning and the evening made Lis 

day. 

Cut oh, the night ! oh, bitter-sweet I oh, 
sweet ! 

dark, O moon and stars. O ecstasy 
Of darkness ! O great mysiery of love. 
In which absoi bed, loss, anguish, treas- 
on s self 

Enlarges lapture.^as a pebble dropt 
In some full wine-cup over-brims the 

wine ! 
While we two sate together, leaned that 

night 
So close, my very garments crept and 

thrilled 
With strange electric life ; and both my 

cheeks 
Grew red, then pale, with touches from 

my hair 
In which his breath was; while the gold- 
en moon 
Was hung before our faces as the badge 
Of some sublime inherited despair, 
Since ever to be seen by only one, — 
A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh. 
Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from a 

smile, 
' Thank God, who made me blind, to 

make me see ! 
Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of souls, 
Which rul'st lor evermore both day and 

night I 

1 am happy.' 

I flung closer to his breast. 
As sword that, after battle, flings to 

sheath ; 
And, ill that hurtle of united souls. 
The mystic motions which in common 

moods 
Are shut beyond our sense, broke in on 

us. 
And, as we sate, we felt the old earth 

spin. 
And all the starry turbulence of worlds 
Swing round us in their audient circles, 

tlil 
If that same golden moon were overhead 
Or if beneath our feet, we did nor know. 

And then calm, equal, smooth with 

weights of jiiy 
Ilis voice rose, as some chief m\isician'.n 

song 



AURORA LEIGH. 



493 



Amid ilie old Jewish femple'3 Selah- 

]iaiise, 
And bade me mark how we two met at 

last 
Upon this moon-bathed proinontory of 

eartli. 
To !;ive up mitch on each side, then take 

■^nll. 
' Beloved,' it sang, 'we must be here to 

work ; 
And men who work can only work fur 

men, 
And, not to work in vain, must compre- 
hend 
Humanity, and so work huinanly, 
And raise men's bodies stiil by raising 

souls. 
As God did first.' 

' r.nt stand upon (he earth,' 
I said, ' to raise them, — (this is liunian 

too ; 
There's nothing high which has not first 

been '•<>«', 
My humbleness, said One, has made me 

great I) 
As God did last.' 

' And Avoik all silenlly. 
And simply,' he returned, 'as God does 

all ; 
Distort our nature never for our work. 
Nor count our right hands stronger for 

being hoofs. 
The man most man, with tenderest hu- 
man hands. 
Works best lor men, — as God in Naza- 

retli.' 

He paused upon the word, and then re- 
sinned : 

' Fewer programmes, we who have no 
prescience. 

Fewer systems, we who are held and do 
not hold. 

Less majii ii g out of masses to be saved, 

r>y nations or by sexes. Kourier s void. 

And Conue absurd, -and Cabet, puerile. 

Subsists no law of life outside of lite, 

No perfect manners, without Christian 
sou's; 

The Clirist himself had been no Law- 
giver, 

Unless he liad given the life, too, with 
the law.' 

I echoed thoughtfully — 'The man, most 
man, 



Works best for men : and, if most man 

nideed. 
He gets his manhood plainest from Iiif 

son! : 
While obviously lliisgtringent «oul itself 
Obe\s our old law of deveio(niei.t ; 
The Spirit ever witnessing in oius. 
And Love, the soul of soul, wiiliin the 

soul, 
Evolving it sublimely. First, Cod's 

love.' 

'And next,' he smiled, ' the love of 

wedded souls, 
Which still presents that myst!>ry's coun- 

ler| art. 
Sweet shadow-rose, upon the water of 

life. 
Of such a mystic substance, Sharoi? 

ga\e 
A name to ! human, vital, fructuous rose, 
Whose calyx liolds the nuiltitude of 

leaves. 
Loves filial, loves fraternal, r.eighbour- 

loves, 
And civic, . . all fair petals, all good 

scents. 
All reddened, sweetened from one central 

Heart !' 

' Alas,' I cried, ' it was not long ago. 
You swore this very social rose smelt 
ill.' 

' Alas,' he answered, ' is it a rose at all ? 

The filial's thankless, the fraternal's 
hard, 

The rest is lost. I do but stand and 
think. 

Across the waters of a troubled life 

The Fiower of Heaven so vainly over- 
hangs. 

What perfect counterpart wou'.d be \:\ 
sight, 

If tanks were clearer. Let us clean ll.e 
tubes. 

And wait for rains. O poet, O my love, 

Since / was too ambitious in my deed. 

And thought to distance all men in suc- 
cess. 

Till God came on me, marked the jilace, 
and said, 

'Ill-doer, henceforth keep within tlii? 
line, 

Attemiiting less than others,'— and J 
stand 



40* 



AURORA LEIGH. 



AikI work among Christ's little ones, 

coiitei.l, — 
('lime ilioii, my compensation, my deaf 

My morning-star, i"y morning ! rise and 

sliine, 
\\\$i touch my hills with radiance not 

iheu' own. 
Shine (Hit for two, Aurora, and fulfil 
jMy falhng-short that must be ! work for 

two, 
As I, though thus restrained, for two, 

shall love ! 
Gaze on, with inscient vision toward the 

sun. 
And, from his visceral heat, pluck out 

the roots 
Of light beyond him. Art's a service, — 

mark ; 
h silver key is given to thy clasp, 
And thou shall stand unvisaried, night 

and day, 
And fix it in the hard, slow-turning wards, 
And open, so, that intermediate door 
IJetwixt the different planes of sensuous 

form 
And form insensuons, that inferior men 
May learn to feel on still through these 

♦.o those, 
And bless thy ministration. The world 

waits 
For help. Beloved, let us love so well. 
Our work shall still be better for our 

love. 
And still our love be sweeter for onr 

work. 
And both commended, fcr the sake of 

each. 
By all true workers and true lovers born. 
Now press thy clarion on thy woman's 

(Love's holy kiss shall still keep conse- 
crate) 

And breathe the fine keen breath along 
the brass, 

And blow all class-walls level as Jeri- 
cho's 

Past Jordan ; crying from the top of 
souls, 

To souls, th.1t here assembled on earth's 
flats, 



To get them to some purer eminence 
'J'hau any hitherln beheld for clouds ! 
What height we know not, — but the way 

we know. 
And how by mounting ever, we attain. 
And so climb on. It is the hour for 

souls ; 
That bodies, leavened by the will and 

love. 
Be lightened to redemption. The world's 

old ; 
But the old world waits the time to be 

renewed: 
Toward which, new hearts in individual 

growth 
Must quicken, and increase to multitude 
In new dynasties of the race of men, — 
Developed whence, shall grow spon- 
taneously 
New churches, new ceconomies, new 

laws • 

Admitting freedom, new societies 
ExcUiding falsehood. He shall make 

all new.' 

My Roinney ! — Lifting up my hand in 

his. 
As wheeled by Seeing spirits toward the 

east, 
He turned instinctively, — where, faint 

and far. 
Along tlie tingling desert of th sky, 
Beyond the circle of the conscious hills. 
Were laid in jasper-stone as clear as 

glass 
The first foundations of that new, near 

Day 
Which should be builded out of heaven 

to God. 
He stood a moment with erected brows, 
In silence, as a creature might, who 

gazed: 
Stood calm, and fed his blind, .najesiic 

eyes 
Upon the thought of perfect noon. And 

when 
I saw his soul saw, — 'Jasper first,' I 

said, 
' And second, sapphire ; third, chalce- 
dony ; 
The rest in order, . . last, an ametliyst.' 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

A ROMANCE OF THE AGE. 

A poet writes to his /rieKd'^Place-^A room in Wycombe Hall. Time — Late 
in' the evening. 

Dear my friend and fellow'Student, I would lean my spirit o'er you ; 
Down the purple of this chamber, tears should scarcely run at will : 
I am humbled who was humble I Friend,"^! bow my head before you 1 
You should lead me to my peasants l-=-but their faces are too still. 

There's a lady— an earl's daughter ; she is proud and she is noble ; 
And she triads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air ; 
And a kingly blood .sends glances up her princely eye to trouble, 
And the shadow of a monarch's crown 13 softened in her hair. 

She lias halls among the woodlands, she has castles by the breakers, 
She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and command, 
And the palpitating engines .snort in steam across her acres. 
As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of her land. 

There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence ; 
Upon princely suitors praying, she has looked in her diadain : 
She has sprung of English nobles, I was born of English peasants; 
What was /that I should love her-=»save for competence to pain ! 

1 was only a poor poet, made for singing at her casement. 
As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things, 
Oh, .she walked so high above me, she appeared to my abasement. 
In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings ! 

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their door-ways ; 
She has blest their little children, .=-as a pi'iest or queen were she. 
Far too tender or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was. 
For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on me. 

She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in the palace^ 

And of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine : 

Oft the prince has named her beauty, 'tvvi.xt the red wine and the chalice : 

Oh, and what Was /to love her ? my Beloved, my Geraldine 1 

Yet I could not choo.se but love her=^T was born to poet xises^^ 
To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair : 
Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses.=^ 
And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star. 

And because T waM a poet, and because the people praised me, 
With their critical deduction for the modern writer's fault ; 
1 co'ild sit at rich men's tables,— *hough the courtesies that raised me, 
Still suggested clear between us the palo .'pectrum of the salt. 



496 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

And they praised mc in her presence : — ' Will your book appear this summer? 
Then returning to each other — ' Yes, our plans are for the moors ;' 
'J hen with whisper dropped behind me— 'There he is ! the latest Comer I 
Oh, she only likes his verses ! what is over, she endures. 

' Quite low born ! self-educated ! somewhat gifted though by nature, — 
And we make a point by asking him,— of being very kind ; 
You may speak, he does not hear you ; and besides, ho writes no satire, — ■ 
All these serpents kept by charmers, leave their natural sting behind.' 

1 grew scornfiiller, grew colder, as I stood up there among them. 
Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning scorched my brow ; 
When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced. overrung them, 
And a sudden silken stirring touched my inner nature through. 

1 looked upward and beheld her ! With a calm and regnant spirit. 
Slowly roimd she swept her eyelids, and said clear before them all-^ • 
' Have you such superfluous honor, sir, that able to confer it 
You will come down, Mr. Bertram, as my guest to Wycombe Hall ? ' 

Here she paused, — she had been paler at the first Word of her speaking ; 
But because a silence followed it, blushed somewhat as for shame ; 
Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly^' I am seeking 
More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of my claim. 

• Nevertheless, you see, I seek it— not because I am a woman,' 
(Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so, overflowed her mouth) 

• Rut because my woods in Sussex- have some purple shades at gloaming 
Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth. 

' 1 invite you, Mr. Bertram, to no scene for worldly speeches- 
Sir, \ scarce should dare — but only where God asked the thrushes first— 
And '\\ you will sing beside them, in the covert of my beeches, 
1 will thank you for the woodlands, , . . for the human world at worst.' 

Then she smiled around right childly, then she gazed around right queenly; 
And I bowed — I could not answer ! Alternate light and gloom — 
While as one who quells the lions, with a steady eye serenely. 
She, with level fronting eyelids, passed out stately from the room. 

Oh, the blessed woods of Sus.se.v, I can hear them still around me. 
With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling up the wind ! 
Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex ! where the hunter's arrow found me. 
When a fair face and a tender voice had made mc mad and blind ! 

In that ancient hall of Wycombe, thronged the numerous guesta jnvited. 
And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet ; 
And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly freighted 
All the air about the windows, with elastic laughters sweet. 

For at eve. the open windows flimg their li£;ht out on tlic terrace. 
Which the floating orbs of curtains did with gradual shadow sweep ; 
While the swans upon the river. f'*d at morning by the heiress. 
Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music in their sleep. 



LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

And there evermore was music, both of instrument and singing ; 
Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in the dark ; 
But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a moonlight ringing. 
And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the hollows of the park. 

And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches, 

To commix my words and laughter with the converse and the jest. 

Oft I sat apart, and gazing on the river through the beeches, 

Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure voice o'erfloat the l-est. 

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed, and laugh of rider, 
Spread out cheery from the court-yard till we lost them in the hills ; 
While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left beside her, 
Went a-waudering up the gardens through the laurels and abeles. 

Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass— 'bareheaded-=-with the flowing 
Of the virginal white vesture gathered closely to her throat ; 
With the golden ringlets in her neck just quickened by bar going, 
And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float,^ 

With a branch of dewy maple, whi(.:h her right hand held above her, 
And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies. 
As she turned her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her, 
And to Worship the divineness of the smile hid in her eyes. 

Frr her eyes alone smile constantly l her lips have serious sweetness, 
k nd her front is ctdm— the dimple rarely ripples on her cheek : 
But her deep blue eyessmile constantly,— as if they in discreetness 
Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak. 

Thug she drew ffle the first morning, out across into the garden ; 
And I walked among her noble friends and could not keep behind ; 
Spake she unto all and unto me — ' Behold, I am the warden 
Of the song birds in these lindens, which are cages to their mind. 

' But within this swarded circle, into which the lime-walk brings us-— 
Whence the beeches rounded greenly, stand away in reverent fear ; 
I will let no music enter, saving what the fountain sings us. 
Which the lilies round the basin may seem pure enough to hear. 

' The live air that waves the lilies waves this slender jet of tVater 

Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of fasting saint ! 

Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping ! (Lough the sculptor Wrought hef,) 

So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush .'—a fancy quaint ! 

' Mark how heavy white her eyelids ! not a dream between them lingers 1 
A.nd the left hand's index droppeth from the lips upon the cheek : 
And the right hand,— with the symbol rose held slack within the fingers,—* 
Has fallen back within the basin — ^yet this Silence will not speak ! 

'That the essential meaning growing may exceed the special symbol. 
Is the thought as I conceive it : it applies more high and low. 
Our true noblemen will often through right nobleness grow humble. 
And assert an inward honor by denying outward show,' 



498 r^ADV GERALDtNE'S COURTSHIP- 

' Nay, your Silence,' said I, ' truly holds her symbol rose but slackly, 
Yet she holds it — or would scarcely be a Silence to our ken ! 
And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, or walk blackly 
In the presence of the social law as most ignoble men. 

■ Let the poets drer.m such dreaming I Madam, in these British Islands, 
'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis the symbol that exceeds ; 
Soon we shall have nought but symbol I and for statues like this Silence, 
Shall accept the rose's image— in another case, the weed's.' 

' Not so quickly 1' she retorted, — ' I Confess where'er you go. you 

Find for things, names — shows for actions, and pure gold for honor clear ; 

But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will throw you 

The world's book which now reads drily, and sit down with Silence here.' 

Half in playfulness she spoke, I thotight, and half in indignation ; 

Friends who listened laughed her Words off while her lovers deemed her fair. 

A fair woman — flush^ with feeling, in her noble-lighted station 

Near the statue's white reposing — and both bathed in sunny air I 

With the trees round, not so distant but you heard their vernal murmur, 
And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in and outward move ; 
And the little foiintain leaping toward the sun-heart to be warmer. 
And recoiling in a tremble from the too much light above. 

'Tis a picture for remembrance ! and thus, morning after morning. 

Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit to her feet — 

Why, her grayhound followed also ! dogs— we both were dogs for scorning — 

To be sent back when she ple.ised it and her path lay through the wheat. 

And thus, morning after morning, spite of vows and spite of sorrow, 
Did I follow at her drawing, while the week-days passed along ; 
Jtist to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the fawns to-morrow, 
Or to teach the hill-side echo some sweet Tuscan in a song. 

Ay, for sometimes on the hill-side, while we sat down in the gowans, 

With the forest green behind us, and its shadow cast before ; 

And the river running under ; and across it from the rowans 

A brown partridge whirring near us, till We felt the air it bore — 

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems 

Made by Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own ; 

Read the pastoral parts of Spenser^or the subtle uiterflowings 

Found in Petrarch's sonnets— here's the book— the leaf is folded down !— 

Or at times a modern volume.— Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, 
Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie,— 
Or from Browning some ' Pomegranate.' which, if cut deep down the middle. 
Shows a heart witnin blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity. 

Or at times T read there, hoarsely, some new poem of my making— 

Poets ever fail in reading their own verses to their worth, — 

For the echo in you breaks unon the words which vou are speaking. 

And th- ch.iriot-wheels jar in the gate through which you drive them forth. 



LAD}- CEKALDLVE'S COUKTSHIF. 

After, wfien we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging 
A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast. 
She would break out on a sudden, in a gush of woodland singing. 
Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad tired of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing ! scarce I know which is divinest — 

For her looks sing too— she modulates her gestures on the tune : 

And her mouth stirs with the song, like song : and when the notes are finest, 

'lis the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem to swell them on. 

Then we talked — oh, how we talked ! her voice, so cadenced in the talking. 
Made another singing — -of the .soul ! a music without bars — • 

While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming round where we were walkingr 
Brought interposition worthy sweet, — as skies about the stars. 

An3she spake such good thoughts natural, as if she always thought them — 
And had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird on branch 
Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way besought them. 
In the birchen wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in the grange. 

In her utmost Tightness there is truth— and often she speaks lightly, j 

Has a grace in being gay, which even mournful souls approve. 

For the root of some grave earnest thought is under-struck so rightly. 

As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above. 

And she talked on — 7ue talked, rather ! upon all things — substance — shadow-^ 
Of the .sheep that browsed the grasses — of the reapers in the corn — 
Ot the little children from the schools, seen winding through tne meadow — 
Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept poorer by its scorn. 

So of men, and so, of letters — books arc nun of higher stature. 
And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear : 
So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly into nature. 
Yet will lift the cry of ' progress,' as it trod from sphere to sphere. 

And her custom was to praise me when I said, — 'The Age culls simples 
With a broad clown's back turned broadlj' to the .glory of the stars^ 
We are gods by our own reck'ning, — and may well shut up the temples. 
And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars. 

' For -we throw out acclamations of self-thanking, self-admiring. 
With, at every mile run faster, — ' O the wondrous wondrous age,' 
Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as our iron. 
Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage. 

' Why, what is this patient entrance into nature's deep resources, 
But the child's most gradual learning to walk upright without bane? 
When we drive out from the cloud of steam, majestical white horses. 
Are we greater than the first men who led black ones by the mane ? 

' If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the stars in rising. 
If we wrapped the globe intensely with a one hot electric breath, 
'Twere but power within our tether — no new spirit-power comprising 
And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder men in death,' 



5^o ZADY^ CF.RALDLVE'S COURl^Sl/ir. 

She was patient with my talking ; and I loved her — loved her certes^ 
As I loved all Heavenly objects, with uplifted eyes and hands ! 
As I loved pure inspirations — loved the graces, loved the virtues. 
In a Love content with writing his own name on desert sands. 

Or at least I thought so purely ! — thought no idiot Hope was raising 

Any crown to crown Love's silence — silent Love that sat alone — 

Out, alas ! the stag is like me — he, that tries to go on grazing 

With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then reels with sudden moan. 

It was thus I reeled ! I told you that her hand had many suitors — 
But she smiles them down imperially, as Venu^ did the waves — 
And with such a gracious coldness, that they cannot press their futures 
On the present of her courtesy, which yieldingly enslaves. 

And this morning, as I sat alone within the inner chamber 
With the great saloon beyond it lost in pleasant thought serene — 
For I had been reading Camoen^ — that poem you remember, 
Which his lady's eyes are praised in, as the sweetest ever seen. 

And the book lay open, and my thought flew from it, taking from it 
A vibration and impulsion to an end beyond its own, 
A^ the branch of a green osier, when a child would overcome it, 
Sprmgs up freely from his clasping and goes swinging in the sun. 

As I mused I heard a murmur, — it grew deep as it grew longer — 
Speakers using earnest language—' Lady Geraldine, you ivo^ld !'• 
And I heard a voice that pleaded ever on, in accents .stronger 
As a sense of reason gave it power to make its rhetoric good. 

Well I knew that voice — it was an earl's, of soul tliat matched his station— = 
Soul completed into lordship — might and right read on his brow : 
Very finely courteous — far too proud to doub, his domination 
Of the common people, — he atones for grandeur by a bow. 

High straight forehead, nose of e.agl-, cold blue eyes, of less expression 

Than resistance, coldly casting off the looks of other men. 

As steel, arrows, — unelastic lips, which seem to taste possession. 

And be cautious lest the common air should injure or distrain. 

For the rest, accomplished, upright — ay, and standing by his order 
With a bearing not ungraceful ; fond of art, and letters too ; 
Just a good man made a proud man, — as the sandy rocks that border 
A wild coast, by circumstances, in a regnant ebb and flow. 

Thu^ I knew that voice — I heard it — and I could not help the hearkening: 
In the room I stood up blindly, and my burnuig heart within 
Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses, till they ran on all sides darkening. 
And scorched, weighed like melted metal round my feet that stood therein 

And that voice, I heard it pleading, for love's sake — for wealth, position. 

For the sake of liberal uses, and great actions to be done — 

And she interrupted gently, ' Nay, my lord, the old tradition 

Of your Normans, hy some worthier hand than mine is, should be won.' 



LAD}- GEKALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 5' 

'Ah, that wh'te hand,' lie said quickly, — and in his he either drew it 
Or attempted — for with gravity and instance she rephed — 
* Nay, indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we had best eschew it. 
And pass on like friends, to other points less easy to decide.' 

What he said again, I know not. It is likely that his trouble 
Worked his pride up to the surface, for she answered in slow scorn — 
' And your lordship judges rightly. Whom 1 marry, shall be noble. 
Ay, and wealthy. 1 shall never blush to think how he was born.' 

There, I maddened ! her words stung me ! Life swept through me into fever. 

And my soul sprang up astonished ; sprang full-statured in an hour : 

Know you what it is when anguish, with apocalyptic never. 

To a Pythian height dilates you, — and despair sublimes to power ? 

From my brain the soul-wings budded ! — waved a flame about my body. 
Whence conventions coiled to ashes ". I felt self-drawn out, as man. 
From amalgamate false natures ; and I saw the skies grow ruddy 
With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can. 

I was mad — inspired — say either ! anguish worketh inspiration 
Was a man or beast — perhaps so ; for the tiger roars when speared ; 
And I walked on, step by step, along the level of my passion — 
Oh my soul ! and passed the doorway to her face, and never feared. 

He had left her, — peradventure, when my footstep proved my coming — 
But for her — she half arose, then sat— grew scarlet and £ rew pale : 
Oh she trembled ! — 'tis so always with a worldly man or woman 
In the presence of true spirits — what else can they do but quail ? 

Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its forest brothers 
Far too strong for it ! then drooping, bowed her face upon her hands — 
And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others ! 
/, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlike, with my sands. 

I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted though leaf-verdant. 
Trod them down with words of shaming, — all the purple and the gold. 
All the ' landed st.akes ' and lordships — all that spirits pure and ardent 
Are cast out of love and honor because chancing not to hold. 

' For myself I do not argue, said I, ' though I love you, madam ; 
But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod. 
And this age shows to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam, 
Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God. 

' Yet, O God,' I said, ' O grave,' I said, ' O mother's heart and bosom. 
With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child ! 
We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing ! 
Wo are traitors to your causes, in these .-ympathies defiled ! 

' Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth — fhni needs no learning ; 
That comes quickly — quick as sin does, ay, and culminates to sin ; 
But for Adam's seed, man ! Trust me, 'tis a clay above your scorning. 
With (Jod's image stamped upon it, and God's kindling breath within. 



LADY cj:kaldl\k's covin ship. 



'What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace mirror daily. 
Getting so by heart your beauty whicli all others must adore. 
While you draw the golden ringlets down your fiiigers, to vow gaily 
You will wed no man that's t)nly good to God, — and nothing more ? 

' Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God— the sweetest woman 
* Of all women He has fashioned — with your lovely spirit-face. 
Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human. 
And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace, 

' What right can you have, God's other works to scorn, despise, revile them 

In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not as nMe men, forsooth, 

As mere Parias of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them 

In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetnees of your mouth ? 

' Have you any answer, ma 'am? If my spirit were less earthly. 
If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string, 
I would kneel down where I stand, and say — Behold me ! I am worthy 
Of thy loving, for I love thee ! I am worthy as a king. 

' As it is— your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her — 
That /, poor. weak, tost with passion, scorned by me and you again. 
Love you, iMadam^-dare to love you — to my grief and your dishonor — 
To my endless desolation, and your impotent disdam !' 

More mad words like these — more madness I friend, I need not write them fuller ; 
And I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears — 
Oh, a woman ! friend, a woman ! Why, a beast had scarce been duller 
Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of thespheres. 

But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder 
Which my soul had it^ed. Ihe silence drew her face up like a call. 
Could you guess what word she uttered ? She looked up. as if in wonder. 
With tears beaded on her lashes, and said ' Bertram !' it was all. 

If she had cursed me — and she might have^or if even, with queenly bearing 
Which at needs is used by women, she had risen up and said, 
'Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing — 
Now, beseech you. choose a name exacting somewhat less instead' — 

I had borne it ! — but that ' Bertram' — why it lies there on the paper 
A mere word, without her accent. — and you cannot judge the weight 
Of the calm which crushed my pa-ssion ! I seemed drowning in a vapor, — 
And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate. 

So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion 
Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth. 
With a logic agonising through unseemly demonstration. 
And with youth's own anguish turning grimly gray the hairs of youth, — 

Uy the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely 
I spake basely — using truth, — if what I spake indeed wns tyue — 
To avenge wrong on a woman — her, who sat there weighing nicely 
A full manhood's worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do I — 



-LADY CE.lALDiyE'S COURTSHIP. 

With such wrong and wo exhausted — what 1 suffered and occasioned, 

As a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes, 
Aud then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassioned. 
Strikes the death into his burning brani, and blindly drops and dies — 

So I fell, struck down before her ! Do you blame me friend, for weakness? 
'Twas my strength of passion slew me ! — fell before her like a stone ; 
Fast the dreadful world rolled from me, on its roar.ng wheels of blackness ! 
When the light came I was lying m this chamber — ayd alone. 

Oh, of course, she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden. 
And to cast it from her scornful sight — but not beyond the gate — 
She was too kind to be cniel, and too haughty not to pardon 
Such a man as I — 'twere something to be level to her hate. 

But for me — you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter. 
How my life is read all backward, and the charm cf life undone! 
I shall leave her house at dawn — I would to-night, if 1 were better — 
And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun. 

When the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart v idi no last gazes, 
No weak moanings — one word only left in writing for her hands. 
Out of reach of all derision, and .some imavailing praises. 
To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands. 

Blame me not, I Would not squander life in grief — T am abstemious : 
I but nurse my .spirit's falcon, that its wings may .soar again : 
There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius : 
Into work the poet kneads them, — .and he does not die till theii. 



CONCLUSION. 



Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever 
Still in hot and heavy splashes, fell the tears on every leaf: 
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver 
From the deep un.spoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief. 

Soh I how still the lady standeth ! 'tis a dream ! — a dream of mercies ! 
'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains, how she standeth still and pale ! 
'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self-curses — 
Cent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of his wail. 

' Eyes,' he .said, ' now throbbing through me ! are ye eyes that did undo me? 
Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone ! 
Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burning torrid 
O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone?" 

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain 
Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows ; 
While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise for ever 
Through the open casement whitened by the moonlight's slant repose. 



5"4 LADY GERALDINE'S COUKTSHIP. 

3aiJ lie — ' Vision o( a lady ! stand there silent, stand there steady ! 
Now I see it plainly, plainly ; now I cannot hope or doubt — 
There, the brows of mild repression — there, the lips of silent passion. 
Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter arrows out.' 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence the kept smiling. 
And approached him sloA-ly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace ; 
With her two white hands extended, as if praying one offended. 
And a look of supplication, gazing earnest in his face. 

Said he — ' Wake me by no gesture, — sound of breath, or stir of vesture ; 
Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its divine I 

No approaching — hush ! no breathing ! or my heart must swoon to death in 
That too utter life thou bring est — O thou dream of Geraldine !' 

Ever, evermore tlie while in a slow silence she kept smiling — 
But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes, and tenderly ; 
■ Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me ? Is no woman far above me 
Found more worthy of thy poel-he.trt than such a one as I?' 

Said he — ' I would dream so ever, like the flowing of that river, 

Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the sea ; 

So, thou vision of all sweetness — princely to .a full completeness, — 

Would my heart and life flow onward — deathward — through tliis dream of Thee!' 

Ever, evermore the while in slow silence she kept smiling. 
While the silver tears ran faster down the blushmg of her cheeks ; 
Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, she softly told him, 
' Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis the vision only spe.aks.' 

Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee he fell before her — 
And she whispered low in triumph — ' It shall be as I have sworn ! 
Very rich he is in virtues, — very noble — noble, certes ; 
And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly born 1' 




LORD WALTER'S WIFE. 

• But why do you go ? ' said the lady, while both sate under the yew. 
Ana hsr eyes were alive in their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-blue. 

' Because 1 fear you,' he answered ; ' because you are far too fair. 
And able to strangle ray soul in a mesh of your gold-colored hair.' 

' Oh, that,' she said ' is no reason ! Such knots are quickly undone. 
And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.' 

' Yet, farewell so,' he answered ; — ' the sun-stroke's fatal at times. 

I value your husband. Lord Walter, whose gallop rings still from the limes.' 

' Oh, that,' she said, ' is no reason. Yo>i smell a rose through a fence : 

If two should sme'.l it, what matter ? who grumbles, and where's the pretence ?' 

' But I,' he replied, ' have promised another, when love was free. 
To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves me.' 

' Why, that, sh^ said, ' is no reason. Love's always free, I am told. 

Will you vow io be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold ? ' 

' But you,' h'^ replied, ' have a daughter, a young little child, who was laid 
In your lap to be pure ; so I leave you : the angels would make me afraid.' 

' Oh, that,' she said, ' is no reason. The angels keep out of the way ; 

And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay.' 

At which he rose up in his anger, — ' Why, now, y^ no longer are fair! 
Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and hateful, I swear.' 

At which she laughed out in her scorn, — ' These men ! Oh, these men overnice. 
Who are shocked if a color not virtuous, is frankly put on by a vice.' 

Her eyes blazed upon him — ' And you / You bring us your vices so near 
That we smell them ! You think in our presence a thought 'twould defame us to 
hear ! 

' What reason had you, and what right, — I appeal to your soul from my life, — 
I'o find me too fair as a woman ? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife. 

' Is the day-star too fair up above you ? It bi^rns you not. Dare you imply 
1 brushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high? 

' If a man finds a woman too fair, he means simply adapted too much 
To uses unlawful and fatal. I'he praise ! — shall I thank you for such ? 



5o6 



LORD WAL'niR'S WIFE. 



' Too fair ! — rot unless you misuse us ! and surely if, once in a while, 
You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile. 

' A moment, — I pray your atlention ! — I have a poor word in my head 
I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better imsaid. 

' You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring. 
You kissed my fan when I d.opped it. JMo matter ! — I've broken the thing. 

' You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then 

In the senses — a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men. 

' Love's a virtue for heroes ! — as white as the snow on high hills. 
And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures and fulfils. 

' I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Maud, though you faltered a week. 
For the sake of . . what was it? an eyebrow? or, still less, a mole on a cheek? 

' And since, when all's said, you're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant 
About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray and .supplant, 

' I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow. 
By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now. 

'There ! Look me in the face ! — in the face. Understand, if you can. 
That the eyes of such women as I am, are clean as the palm of a man. 

' Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar — 
You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are. 

' You wronged me : but then I considered . . . there's Walter ! And so at the 

end, 
I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of .a friend. 

' Have I hurt you indeed ? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, ba 

mine ! 
Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine.' 




LAST POEMS, 


To " Grateful Floyence" to the Municipality, hey Representative, ami ia 


Tontntasea, its Spoliesttlan^ Most Grat^ully. 


LITTLE MATTIE, 


IV. 




Ay, and if she spoke, may be 


1 


She would answer like the So^f, 


Dead I Thirteen a monih ago ! 


' What is now 'twixt thee an me ?' 


bhort and narrow her life s walU. 


Dreadful answer ! better none. 


Lover's love she could not know 


Yours on Monday, God's to-day I 


Even by a dream or talk ; 


Yours, your child, your blood, your 


Too young to be glad of youth i 


heart, 


Mi55sing honor, labor, rest. 


Called . . . you Called her, did you say, 
• Little Mattie ' for your pan 1 


And the warmth of a babe's mouth 


At the blossom of her breast. 


Now already it sounds strange, 


Must you pity her for this. 
And for all the loss it is— 


And you Wonder, in this change, 


What He calls His angel-creature. 


You, her mother, with wet face, 


Higher up than you Can reach her. 


Having had all in your case ? 


y. 


1 11. 
Just so young but yesternight, 
Now she is as old as death, 


'Twas a green and easy world 
As she took it ! room to play, 


Meek, obedient in your sight. 
Gentle to a beck or breath 

Only on last Monday 1 yours, 
Answernig you like silver belk 


{Though one's hair might get uncurled 

At the far end of the day.) 
What she suffered she shook off 

In the sunshine ; what she sinned 
She could pray on high enough 

To keep safe above the wind. 
If reproved by God or you. 
'Twas to better her she knew ; 
And if crossed, she gathered still, 
'Twas to cross out something '11. 


Slightly touched 1 an hour matures ; 

You can teach her nothing else. 
She hxs seen the mystery hid 
Under Egypt's pyramid. 
By those eyelids pale and close 
Now she knows What Rhamses knows. 


111. 
Cros^ her quiet hands, and smooth 


VI. 

You, you had the right, you thought, 
To survey her with sweet scorn. 


Down her patient locks ofsilk, 


Cold and passive as in truth 


Poor gay child, who had not caught 


You your fingers in spilt milk 
Drew along a marble floor ; 


Yet the octavc'Stretch forlorn 


Of your larger wisdom ! Nay, 
Now your places are changed so, 


But her lips you cannot wring 


Into saying a Word more. 


In that same superior way 


■ Yes ' or ' no,' or such a thing. 


She regards you dull and low 


Though you call, and bes, and wreak 


As you did herself exempt 


Half your soul out in a shriek, 


From life's sorrows. Gr.nnd Contempt 


She will lie there in default 


or the spirit; risen awhile. 


And most innocent revolt. 


Who look back with such a smila. 



5o8 



VOID IN LA IV. 



I'herc's the sting of 't. That, 1 think, 

Hurts tht; most, a thousand-fold ! 
To feci sudden, at a wnik. 

Some dear child we used to scold, 
Praise, love bjth ways, kiss and tease, 

Teach and tumble as our own, 
All its curls about our knees. 

Rise up suddenly full-grown. 
Who could wonder such a sight 
Made a woman mad outright ? 

. Show me Michael with the sword, 

flather than such angels, Lord 1 



MAY'S LOVE. 



You love all you say, 

Round, beneath, above me I 
Find me then some way 

Better than to love me, 
Me, too, dearest May 1 



O worW-kissing eyes 

Which the blue heavens melt to I 
I, sad, overwi^e, 

Loathe ihc sWeet looks dealt to 
All thmgs — n.en and flies. 



You love all, yc-\x say ; 

Therefore, Drar abate me— 
Just your love, 1 pr^y ! 

Shut your eyes aijj hate me 
Only wi?— fair May I 



A FALSE ^TEP. 



Sweet, thou hast trod on a heaf t. 

Pass ! there's a world LlU nf men ; 
And women as fair as thnu aft 

Must do such things now and then. 



Thou only hast stepped unaware,-^ 
Malice, not one can impute ; 



And why should a heart have been 
there 
In the Way of a fair woman's foot ? 



It was not a stone that could trip. 
Nor was it a thorn that could rend ; 

Put up thy proud underlip ! 

'Twas merely the heart of a friend. 



And yet peradventure one day 
Thou, sitting alone at the glass. 

Remarking the bloom gone away, 
Where the smile in its dimplement 
was. 



And seeking around thee in v.nin 
From hundreds who flattered before, 

Such a word as, ' Oh, not in the main 
Do I hold thee less precious, but 
more 1' 



Thou'lt sigh, very like, on thy part, 
' Of all 1 have known or can know, 

I wish I had only that Heart 
I trod upon ages ago I' 



VOID IN LAW. 



Sleep, little babe, on my knee. 
Sleep, for the midnight is chill, 

And the moon has died out in the tree, 
And the great human world goeth ill, 

Sleep, for the wicked agree : 
Sleep, let them do as they will. 

Sleep. 



Sleep, thou hast drawn from my breast 
The List drop of milk that was good ; 

And now, in a dream, suck the rest. 
Lest the real should trouble thy blood. 

Suck, little lips dispossessed, 

As we kiss in the air whom we would. 

Sleep, 



BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. 



D lip? of thy father! the same, 
So Hke ! Very deeply they swore 

When he gave me his ring and his name, 
To take back, 1 miagined, no more ! 

And now is all changed like a game, 
Though the old cards are used as of 
yore? 

Sleep. 



' Void in law,' said the Courts. Some^ 
thing wrong 
In the forms ? Yet, ' Till death part 
us two, 
I, James, take thee, Jessie,' was strong. 

And One witness competent. True 
Such a marriage was worth an old song, 
Heard in Heaven though, as plain as 
the New. 
Sleep. 



Sleep, little child, his and mine ! 

Her throat has the antelope curve, 
And her cheek just the color and line 

Which fade not before him nor swerve; 
Vet she has no child l-^the divine 

Seal of right upon loves that deserve. 
Sleep. 



My child ! though the world take her 
part, 
Saying, ' She was the woman to 
choose. 
He had eyes, was a man in his heart,'^- 

We twain the decision refuse : 
We . . weak as I am, as thou art, . . 

Cling on to him, never to loose. 
Sleep. 



He thitlks that, when done With this 
place. 
All's ended ? he'll new-stamp the ore ? 
Yes, Caasar's — but not in our Case. 

Let him learn we are waiting before 
The grave's mouth, the heaven's gate, 
God's face, 
With implacable love evefmore. 
Sleep. 



He's ours, though he kissed her but now ; 

He's ours, though she kissed in reply ; 
He's ours, though himself disavow. 

And God's universe favor the lie ; 
Ours to claim, ours to clasp, ours below. 

Ours above, ... if we live, if we die. 
Sleep. 

IX. 

Ah baby, my baby, too rough 

Is my lullaby ? What have I said ? 

Sleep I When I've wept long enough 
I shall learn to weep softly instead. 

And piece with some alien stuff 

My heart to lie smooth for thy head. 

Sleep. • 



Two souls met upon thee, my sweet ; 

Two loves led thee out to the sun : 
Alas, pretty hands, pretty feet. 

If the one who remains (only one) 
Set her grief at thee, turned 'n a heat 

To thine enemy, — were it well done ? 
Sleep. 

XI. 
May He of the manger stand near 

And love thee I An infant He came 
To His own who rejected Hitn here 
But the Magi brought gifts all the 
same, 
/hurry the cross on my Dear ! 

My gifts are the griefs I declaim I 
Sleep. 



BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTIX- 
GALES. 



THK cypress stood up like a church 
That night we felt our love would 
hold. 
And saintly moonlight seemed to search 
And wash the whole world clean as 
gold ; 
The olives crystalliJied the vales' 
Broad slopes until the hills grew strong; 
The fire=flies and the nightingali.9 



510 



BIANCA AMO.^G THE NIGHTINGALES. 



Throbbed each to either, flame and 
song. 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



Upon the angle of its shade 

I'he cypress stood, self-balanced high 
Half up, half down, as double-made, 

Along the ground, against the sky. 
And we, too I from such soul - height 
went 

Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven. 
We scarce knew if our nature meant 

Most passionate earth or intense hea- 
ven. 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



We paled with love, we shook with 
love. 

We kissed so close we could not vow ; 
Till Giulio whispe.'ed, 'Sweet, above 

God's Ever guaranties this Now.' 
And through his words the nightingales 

Drove straight and full their long clear 
call, 
Like arrows through heroic mails, 

And love was awful in it all. 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



O cold white moonlight of the north. 

Refresh tliese pulses, quench this hell ! 
O coverture of death drawn forth 

Across this garden-chamber . . well ! 
Bit what have nightingales to do 

In gloomy England, called the free, . 
(Yes, fre^ to die in ! . .) wlien we two 

Are sundered, singing still to me? 
And still they sing, the nightingales. 



I think 1 hear him, how he cried 
' My own soul's life ' between their 
notes. 
_ Each man has but one soul supplied, 
And that's immortal. Though his 
throat's 
On fire witVi passion now, to her 

He can't say what to me he said I 
And yet he moves her, they aver. 

The nightingales sing through my 
head, 
The ni;iluiii;;.iles, I'.ie ni^jlitiiisales, 



He gays to hey what moves her most. 

He would not name his soul within 
Her hearing,-=rather pays her cost 

With praises to her lips and chin. 
Man has but orte soul, 'tis ordained. 

And each soul but one love, I add ; 
Yet souls are damned and love's pro- 
faned. 

The nightingales will sing me mad 1 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



I marvel how the birds can sing,^ 

There's little difference, in their view, 
Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring 

As vital flames into the blue, 
And dull round blots of foliage meant 

Like saturated sponges here 
To suck the fogs up. As Content 

Is he too in this land, 'tis clear. 
And still they sing, the nightingales. 

Vlli. 
My native F'lorence 1 dear, foregone I 

I see across the Alpine ridge 
How the last feast-day of St. John 

Shot rockets from Carraia bridge. 
The luminous city, tall with fire. 

Trod deep down in that river of ours, 
While many a boat with lamp and choir 

Skimmed birdlike over glittering 
towers. 
I will not hear those nightingales. 



I seem to float, lue seem to float 

Down Arno's stream in festive guise ; 
A boat stikes flame into our boat. 

And up that lady seems to rise 
As then she rose. The shock had 
flashed 

A vision on us I What a head. 
What leaping eyeballs !— beauty dashed 

To splendor by a sudden dread. 
And still they sing, ftie nightingales. 



Too bold to sin, too weak to die ; 

Such women are so. As for me, 
I would we had droWned there, he and I, 

That moment, loviny perfectly. 



AfV KA TE. 



He had not caught her with her loosed 
Gold ringletb . . rarer in the south . . 

Nor heard the ' Grazle tanto ' bruised 
To sweetness by her English mouth. 

And still they sing, the nightingales. 



She had not reached him at my heart 

With her fine tongue, as snakes in- 
deed 
Kill flies ; nor had I, for my part. 

Yearned after, in my desperate need, 
And followed him as he did her 

To coasts left bitter by the tide. 
Whose very nightingales elsewhere 

Delighting, torture and deride! 
For still they sing, the nightingales. 



A worthless woman ! Mere cold clay 

As all false things are ! but so fair. 
She takes the breath of men away 

Who gaze upon her unaware. 
I would not play her larcenous tricks 

To have her looks ! She lied and 
stole. 
And spat into my love's pure py.'c 

The rank saliv.a of her soul. 
And still they sing, the nightingales. 



I would not for her white and pink. 

Though such he likes — her grace of 
limb. 
Though such he has praised — nor yet, I 
think. 

Fo' life itself, though spent with him. 
Commit such sacrilege, affront 

God's nature which is love, intrude 
'Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt 

Like spiders, in the altar's wood 
I cannot bear these niglitingales. 



If she chose sin, some gentler guise 
She might have smncd in, so it seems : 

She might have pricked out both my 
eyes. 
And I still seen him in my dreams ! 

— Or dru'Tged me in my soup or wme. 
Nor left me angry afterward: 

To die here with his hand in mine. 



His breath upon me, were not hard. 
(Our Lady hush those nightingales !) 



But set a springe for /lim, 'mio ben,' 

My only good, my first last live ! — 
Though Christ knows well what sin is, 
when 

He sees some things done they must 
move 
Himself to wonder. Let her pass. 

I think of her by night and day. 
Must /too join her . . out, alas ! . , 

With Giulio, in each word I say? 
And evermore the nightingales ! 



Giulio, my Guilo ! — sing they so. 

And you be silent ? Do 1 speak. 
And you not hear ? An arm you throw 
Round some one, and I feel so weak? 
— Oh, owl-like birds ! They sing for 
spite. 
They sing for 'nate, theysing for doom! 
They'll sing through death who sing 
through night. 
They'll sing and stun me in the 
tomb — 
The nightingales, the nightingales! 



She was not as pretty as women I know. 
And yet all your best made of sunshine 

and s'now 
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the 

long-trodden ways. 
While she's still remembered on warm 

and cold days — 

My Kate. 



Her air had a meaning, her movements 
a grace ; 

You turned from the fairest to gaze on 
her face : 

And when you had once seen her fore- 
head and mouth. 

You saw as distinctly her soul and her 
truth — 

My Kate. 



A SOATC FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 



Such a blue inner light from her eyelids 

outbroke. 
You looked at her silence and fancied 

she spoke : 
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was 

the tone, 
Though the loudest spoke also, you 

heard her alone — 

My Kate. 

IV. 

I doubt if she said to you much that 

could act 
As a thought or suggestion : she did not 

attract 
In the sense of the brilliant or wise : I 

infer 
'Twas her thinking of others, made you 

think of her — 

My Kate. 



She never found fault with j'ou, never 

implied 
Your wrong by her right ; and yet men 

at her side 
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the 

whole town 
The children were gladder that pulled 

at her gown— 

My Kate. 



None knelt at her feet confessed lovers 

in thrall ; 
They knelt more to God than they used, 

— that was all : 
If you praised her as charming, some 

asked what you meant. 
But the charm of her presence was felt 

when she went — 

My Kate. 



The weak and the gentle, the ribald and 

rude. 
She took as she found them, and did 

them all good ; 
It always was so with her — see what you 

have ! 
She has made the grass greener even 

hem . . with her grave — 

My Kate. 



My dear one ! — when thou wast alive 

with the rest, 
I held thee the sweetest and loved thee 

the best : 
And now thou art dead, shall I not take 

thy part 
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my 

sweet Heart — 

My Kate. 



A SONG FOR THE RAGGED 
SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 



WRITTEN IN ROME. 



I AM listening here in Rome. 

' England's strong,' say many speakc 
' If she winks, the Czar must come. 

Prow and topsail, to the breakei-s.' 



' England's rich in coal and oak,' 
Adds a Roman, getting moody, 

' If she shakes a tr-avelling cloak, 
Dov/n our Appian roll the scudi 



'England's righteous,' they rejoin, 
' Who shall grudge her exhaltations, 

When her wealth of golden coin 
Works the welfare of the nations?' 



I am listening here in Rome. 

Over Alps a voice is sweeping- 
' England's cruel ! save us .some 

Of these victims in her keeping 



As the cry beneath the wheel 
Of an old triumphal Roman 

Cleft the people's shouts like steel, 
While the show was spoilt for nc 



Comes that voice. Let others shout. 
Other poets praise my land here : 

I am sadly sitting out. 

Praying, ' God forgive her grandeur.' 



A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 



Shall we boast of empire, where 
Time with ruin seems commissioned ? 

In God's liberal blue air 
Peter's dome itself locks wizened : 



And the mountains, in disdain. 
Gather back their lights of opal 

From the dumb, despondent plain. 
Heaped with jawbones of a people. 



Lordly English, think it o'er, 
Caesar's doing is all undone ! 

You have cannons on your shore. 
And free parliaments in London, 



Princes' parks, and merchants' homes. 
Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen, — 

Ay, but ruins worse than Rome's 
In your pauper men and women. 



Women leering through the gas, 

(Just such bosoms used to nurse you) 

Men, turned wolves by famine — pass ! - 
Those can .speak themselves, and 
curse you. 



But these others — children small. 
Spilt like bloLs about the city. 

Quay and street, and palace- wall — 
Take them up into your pity ! 



Ragged children with bare feet. 

Whom the angels in bright raiment 

Know the names of, to repeat 

When they come on you for payment. 



Ragged children, hungry-eyed. 
Huddled up out of the coldness 

On your doorsteps, side by side, 

Till your footman damns their bold- 
ness. 



In the alleys, in the squares. 
Begging, lying little rebels ; 

In the noisy thoroughfares. 

Struggling on with piteous trebles. 



Patient children — think what pain 
Makes a young child patient — pon- 
der ! 

Wronged too commonly to strain 
After right, or wish, or wonder. 

XVII. 
Wicked children, with peaked chins. 

And old foreheads ! there are many 
With no pleasures except sins. 

Gambling with a stolen penny. 

XVIII. 
Sickly children, that whine low 

To themselves and not their Mothers, 
From mere habit, — never so 

Hoping help o- care from others. 



Healthy children, with those blue 

English eyes, fresh from their Maker, 

Fierce and ravenous, staring through 
At the brown loaves of the baker. 



I am listening here in Rome, 
And the Romans are confessing, 

■ English children pass in bloom 
All the prettiest made for blessing. 



' AngUangeli r (resumed 
From the mediaeval story) 

' Such rose angelhoods, empiumed 
In such ringlets of pure glory !' 



Can we smooth down the bright hair, 
O my sisters, calm, uiithrilled in 

Our heart's pulses? Can we bear 
The sweet looks of our own children. 



5M 



AMrS CRUELTY. 



XXIII. 

While those others, lean and small. 
Scurf and mildew of the city, 

Spot our streets, convict lis all 
Till we take them into pity? 

XXIV. 

' Is it our fault ?' you reply, 

' When, throughout civilization. 

Every nation's enipery 
Is a'S»erted by starvation ? 



'All these mouths we cannot feed. 
And we cannot clothe these bodies.' 

Well, if man's so hard indeed. 

Let them learn at least what God is ! 

XXVI. 

Little outcasts from life's fold. 

The grave's hope they may be joined 
in, 

By Christ's covenant consoled 
For our social contract's grinding, 

XXVII. 

If no better can be done. 

Let us do but this, — endeavor 

That the sun behind the sun 

Shine upon them while they shiver ! 



On the dismal London flags. 
Through the cruel social juggle. 

Put a thought beneath their rags 
To ennoble the heart's struggle. 

XXIX. 

O my sisters, not so much 

Are we asked for — not a blossom 
From our children's nosegay, such 

As we gave it from our bosom, — 



Not the milk left in their cup. 

Not the lamp while they are sleeping. 

Not tlie little cloak hung up 

While the coat's in daily keeping, — 

XXXI. 

l!ut a place in Ragged Schools, 
Where the outcasts may to-morrow 



Xicarn by gentle words and rules 
Just the uses of their sorrow. 

XXXII. 

O my sisters ! children small. 

Blue-eyed, wailing through the city- 
Our own babes cry in them all : 

Let us take them into pity. 



AMY'S CRUELTY. 



Fair Amy in the terraced house. 

Assist me to discover 
Why you would not hurt a mouse 

Can torture so your lover. 



You give your coffee to the cat. 
You stroke the dog for coming. 

And all your face grows kinder at 
The little brown bee's humming. 



But when he haunts your door . . the 
town 
Marks coming and marks going . . 
You seem to have stitched your eyelids 
down 
To that long piece of sewing ! 



You never give a look, not you. 
Nor drop him a ' Good morning,' 

To keep his long day warm and blue. 
So fretted by your scorning. 



She shook her head — 'The mouse and 
bee 

For crumb or flower will linger : 
The dog is happy at my knee. 

The cat purrs at my finger. 



' But he . . to him, the least thing given 
Means great things at a distance ; 

He wants my world, my sun, n>y 
heaven, 
Soul, body, whole existence. 



WHERE'S AGNES f 



VII. 
' They say love gives as well as takes ; 

But I'm a simple maiden,— 
My mother's first smile when she wakes 

I still have smiled and prayed in. 



' I only know my mother's love 
Which gives all and asks nothing ; 

And this new loving sets the groove 
Too much the way of loathing. 



' Unless he gives me all in change, 
I forfeit all thmgs by him : 

The risk is terrible and strange— 
I tremble, doubt, . . . deny him. 



' He's sweetest friend, or hardest foe, 
Best angel, or worst devil ; 

I either hate or . . love him so, 
1 can't be merely civil I 



' You trust a woman who puts forth 
Her blossoms thick as summer's ? 

You think she dreams what love 
worth 
Who casts it to new-comers ? 



'Such love's a cowslip-ball to fling, 
A moment's pretty pastime ; 

/ give . . all me, if anything, 
The first time and the last time. 

XIII. 
' Dear neighbor of the trellised house, 

A man should murmur never, 
Though treated worse than dog and 
mouse, 
Till doted on forever 1 ' 



THE 



BEST THING 
WORLD. 



IN THE 



What's the best thing in the world ? 
June-rose by May-dew impearled ; 



Sweet south-wind that me-ins no rain ; 
Truth, not cruel to a friend ; 
Pleasure not in haste to end : 
Beauty not self-decked and curled 
Till its pride is over-plain ; 
Light that never makes you wink ; 
Memory, that gives no pain ; 
Love, when, so, you're loved again. 
What's the best thing in the world ? 
— Something out of it, I think. 



WHERE'S AGNES? 



Nay, if I had come back so. 

And found her dead in her grave, 

And if a friend I know 

Had said, ' Be strong, nor rave ; 

She lies there, dead below : 



I saw her, I who speak, 

While, stiff, the face one blank ; 
The blue shade came to her cheek 

Before they nailed the plank, 
For she had been dead a week.' 



Why, if he had spo*Ken so, 

I might have believed the thing 

Although her look, although 
Her step, laugh, voice's ring 

Lived in me still as they do. 



But dead that other way, 
Corrupted thus and lost? 

That sort of worm in the clay ? 
I cannot count the cost, 

That I should rise and pay. 



My Agnes false ? such shame ? 

She? Rather be it said 
That the pure saint of her name 

Has stood there in her stead. 
And tricked you to this blame. 



Her very gown, her cloak 
Fell chastely : no disguise, 



5i6 



U^HERE'S AGNE^; 



But expression ! while she broke 

With her clear gray morning-eyes 
Full upon me and then spoke. 



She wore her hair away 

From her forehead,— like a cloud 
Which a little wmd in May 

Peels off finely ! disallowed 
Though bright enough to stay. 



For'the heavens must have the place 
To themselves, to use and shine in, 

As her soul would have her face 
To press through upon mine, m 

That orb of angel grace. 



Had she any fault at all, 

'Twas having none, I thought too— 
There seemed a sort of thrall ; 

As she felt her shadow ought to 
Fall straight upon the wall. 



Her sweetness strained the sense 

Of common life and duty ; 
And every day's expense 

Of moving in such beauty, 
Required, almost, defence. 

XI. 
What good, 1 thought, is done 

By such sweet things if any ? 
This world smells ill i' the sun 

Though the garden-flowers are 
many, — 
She is only one. 

XII. 
Can a voice so low and soft 

Take open actual part 
With Right, — maintain aloft 

Pure truth in life or art. 
Vexed always wounded oft ? — 

XIII. 
She fit, with that fair pose 

Which melts from curve to curve, 
To stand, run, work with those 

Who wrestle and deserve. 
And speak plain without glose ? 



But I tulned round on my fear 

Defiant, disagreeing — 
What if God had sent her here 

Les.s for action than for Being ? 
For the eye and for the ear. 



Just to show what beauty may, 
Just to prove what music can,— 

And then to die away 

From the presence of a man, 

Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray ? 



As a door, left half ajar 

In heaven, would make him think 
How heavenly-different are 

Things glanced at through the chink. 
Till he pined from near to far. 

Xvil. 
That door could lead to hell ? 

That shining merely meant 
Damnation ? What I She fell 

Like a woman, who was sent 
Like an angel by a spell ? 

XVlll. 
She, who scarcely trod the earth. 
Turned mere dirt ? My Agnes,— 
mine ! 
Called so I felt of too much worth 

To be used so 1 too divine 
To be breathed near, and so forth ? 

xiX. 
Why, 1 dared not name a sin 

In her presence : I went round. 
Clipped its name and shut it in 

Some mysterious crystal sound,-— 
Changed the dagger for the fin. 



Now you name herself that ivord ? 

O my Agnes ! O my saint ! 
Then the great joys of the Lord 

Do not last ? Then all this paint 
Runs off nature ? leaves a board ? 



Who's dead her 
Rather 1 I or 



XXI. 
: ? No, not she : 
i'hence this damp 



DE PROFUNDIS. 



Cold corruption's misery ? 

Why my very mourners stamp 
Closer in the clods on me. 



And my mouth is full of dust 
Till 1 cannot speak and curse — 

Speak and damn him . . ' Blame's un- 
just'? 
Sin blots out the universe, 

All because she would and must ? 

xxill. 
She, my white rose, dropping off 

The liigh rose-tree branch ! and not 
That the night-wind blew too rough. 

Nor the noon-sun burnt too hot. 
But, that being a rose — 'twas enough 1 



Then henceforth, may earth grow trees ! 

No more roses ! —hard straight lines 
To score lies out ! none of these 

Fluctuant curves ! but firs and pines. 
Poplars, cedars, cypresses ! 



DE PROFUNDIS. 



The face, which duly as the sun. 
Rose up for me with life begun, 
To mark all bright hours of' the day 
With daily love, is dimmed away — 
And yet my days go on, go on. 



'I'he tongue which like a stream could 

run 
Smooth music from the roughest stone. 
And every morning with ' Good day ' 
Made each day good, i'i hushed away — 
And yet my days i^o on, go on. 



The heart, which like a staff, was one 
For mine to lean and rest upon ; 
The strongest on the longest day 
With steadfast love, is caught away — 
And yet my days go on, go on. 



And cold before my summer's done. 
And deaf in nature's general tune. 
And fallen too low for special fear. 
And here, with hope no longer here — 
While the tears drop, my days go on. 



The world goes whispering to its own, 
'This anguish pierces to the bone.' 
And tender friends go sighing round, 
■ What love can ever cure this wound V 
My days go on, my days go on. 



The past rolls forward on the sun 
And makes all night. O dreams begun, 
Not to be ended ! Ended bliss! 
And life, that will not end in this ! 
My days go on, my days go on. 



Breath freezes on my lips to moan : 
As one alone, once not alone, 
I sit and knock at Nature's door, 
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor. 
Whose desolated days go on. 



I knock and cry, . . Undone, undone 1 
Is there no help, no comfort — none 1 
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains 
Where others drive their loaded wains? 
My vacant days go on, go on. 



This nature, though the snows be down. 
Thinks kindly of the bird of June. 
The little red hip on the tree 
Is ripe for such. What is for me. 
Whose days so winterly go on ? 



No bird am I to sing in June, 
And dare not ask an equal boon. 
Good ne-ts and berries red are Nature's 
To give away to better creatures — 
And yet my days go on, go on. 



/ask less kindness to be done — 
Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon 



5.8 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 



(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet 
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, 
Till days go out which now go on. 



Only to lift the turf unmown 
From off the earth where it has grown, 
Some cubic space, and say, ' Behold, 
Creep in poor Heart, beneath that fold. 
Forgetting how the days go on,' 

XIII. 

What harm would that do ? Green 

anon 
The sward would quicken, overshone 
By skies as blue ; and crickets might 
Have leave to chirp there day and night 
While my new test went on, went on, 

XIV. 
From gracious nature have I won 
Such liberal bounty ? May I run 
So, lizard-like, within her side. 
And there be safe who now am tried 
By days that painfully go on ? 



A voice reproves me thereupon. 

More sweet than Nature's when the 

droi^e 
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep. 
Than when the rivers overleap 
The shuddering piaes, and thunder on. 



God's Voice, not Nature's — night and 

noon 
He sits upon the great white throne 
And listens for the creature's praise. 
What babble we of days and days ? 
The Dayspring He, whose days go on. 

XVII. 

He rei.s;tis above. He reigns alone ; 
Systems burn out and leave His throne : 
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall 
Around Him, changeless amid all ! — 
Ancient of days, whose days go on ! 



He reigns below, He reigns alone — 
And having life in love forgone 



Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, 
He reigns the jealous God. Who 

mourns 
Or rules with Him, while days go on ? 

xi.\-. 

By anguish which made pale the sun, 
I hear him charge his saints that none 
Among the creatures anywhere 
Blaspheme against him with despair. 
However darkly days go on. 



— Take from my head the thorn -wreath 

brown. 
No mortal grief deserves that crown. 
O supreme Love, chief misery. 
The sharp regalia are for T/iee 
Whose days eternally go on ! 



For us, . . whatever's undergone, 
Thou knowest, wiliest what is done 
Grief may be joy misunderstood : 
Only the Good discerns the good. 
I trust Thee while my days go on. 



XXII. 

Whatever's lost, it first was won I 
We will not struggle nor impugn. 
Perhaps the cup was broken here 
That Heaven's new wine might show 

more clear. 
I praise thee while my days go on. 



I praise Thee while my days go on , 
I love Thee while my days go on ! 
Through dark and dearth, through fire 

and frost. 
With emptied arms and treasure lost 
I thank Thee while my days go on 1 



And, having ni thy life-depth thrown 
Being and suffering (which are one). 
As a child drops some pebble small 
Down some deep well and hears it fall 
Smiling ... so I ! Thy days go on I 



FIRST NEWS FRO.n VILLA FRANCA. 



5'9 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 



What was he doing, the great god Pan, 
Down in the reeds by the river? 

Spreading ruin and scattering ban. 

Splashing and paddUng with hoofs of a 
goat, 

And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river? 



He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river. 
The limpid water turbidly ran, 
And the broken lilies a«dying lay, 
And the dragon-fly had fled away. 
Ere he brought it out of the rivef. 



High on the shore sate the great god 
Pan, 
While turbidly flowed the river, 
And hacked and hewed as a great god 

can 
With his hard bleak steel at the patient 

reed. 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf in- 
deed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 



He cut it short did the great god Pan, 
(How tall it stood in the river I) 

Then drew the pith like the heart of a 
man. 

Steadily from the outside ring. 

Then notched the poor dry empty thing 
In holes as he sate by the river. 



'This is the way,' laughed the great god 
Pan, 
(Laughed while he sate by the river !) 
' The only way since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could suc- 
ceed,' 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in 
the reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 



Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, 

Piercing sweet by the river ! 
P.linding sweet, O great god Pan I 
The sun on the hill forgot to die. 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon- 

fly 

Came back to dream on the river. 



Yet half a beast is the great god Pan 

To laugh, as he sits by the river, 
Making a poet out of a man. 
The true gods sigh for the cost and the 

pain — 
For the reed that grows never more 
again 
As a reed with the reeds of the river. 



FIRST NEWS FROM VILLA- 
FRANCA. 



Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 
What ! with the enemy's guns in our 

ears ? 
With the country's wrong not render- 
ed back ? 
What ! while Austria stands at bay 
In Mantua, and our Venice bears 
The cursed flag of the yellow and 
black 1 

II. 
Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 

And this the Mincio ? Where's the 

fleet? 
And where's the sea ? Are we all 
blind 
Or mad with the blood shed yesterday. 
Ignoring Italy under our feet. 
And seeing things before, behind ? 



Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 

What tmcontested, ilndenied? 

Because we triumph, we succumb? 
A pair of emperors stand in the way 



$te> 



KING VICTOR EMANUEL. 



(One of whom is a man beside) 

To sign and seal our cannons dumb ? 



No, not Napoleon 1 he who mitsed 
At Paris, and at Milan spake, 
And at Solferino led the fight. 

Not he we trusted, honored, used 

Our hopes and hearts for . . till they 
break. 

Even 50 you tell us . . in his sight I 
V. 

Peace, peace, peace, is still your word ? 
We say you lie, then, that is plain : 
There is no peace, and shall be none, 

Our very dead would cry, ' Absurd,' 
And clamor that they died in vain, 
And whme to come back to the sun. 



Hush I more reverence for the dead I 
They've done the most for Italy 
Evermore since the earth was fair. 

Now would that ijoe had died instead. 
Still dreaming peace meant liberty, 
And did not, could not, mean despair ? 

VII. 

Peace, you say I Yes, peace in truth 1 
But such a peace as the ear can 

achieve 
'Tvvi.\t the rifle's click and the rush of 
the ball. 
'Twixt the tiger's spring and the crunch 
of the tooth, 
'Twixt the dying atheist's negative 
And God's face . . Waiting, after all. 



KING VICTOR EMANUEL 
Entering Florence, April, i860. 



King of us all, we cried to thee, cried to 
thee, 
Trampled to earth by the beasts im- 
pure. 
Dragged by the chariots which shame 
as they roll. 
The 4ast of our torment f.^r and wide to 
thee 



Went up dark'ning the royal soul. . 

Was It not so, Cavour. 
That tlie King was sad for the people 
in thrall. 

This King of us all ? 



King, we cried to thee ! — Strong in re- 
plying. 
Thy word and sword sprang rapid 

and sure. 
Cleaving our way to a nation's place. 
O first soldier of Italy, crying 

Now grateful, exultant, we look in 
thy face. 
Is it not so, Cavour, 
That, freedom's first soldier, the freed 
should call 
First King of them all ? 



This is our beautiful Italy's birthday : 
Generous souls, whether many or 

fewer. 
Bring her the gift and wish her the 
good ; 
And heaven presents on this sunny earth- 
day 
The noble King to the land renewed. 
Is it not so, Cavour ? 
Roar, cannon-mouths ! — proclaim, in- 
stall 
The King of us all ! 

IV. 

Grave he rides through Florence gate- 
way. 
Clenching his face into calm, to im- 
mure 
His struggling heart till it half disap- 
pears. 
If he relaxed for a moment, straightw.ay 
He would break out into passionate 
tears — 
(Is It not so, Cavour?) 
While rings the cry without interval, 
' Live King of us all !' 



Cry, free peoples ! — honor the nation 
By crowning the true man — and none 
is true I 



THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTKUCAA'T. 



Pisa is here, and Livoma is here. 
And thousands of faces in wild exiilta-" 
tion, 
Burn over the windows to feel him 
near — 
(Is it noi so, Cavour ^) 
Burn over from tefrace, roof, window 
and wall. 
On this King of as all. 



Grave ! A good man's ever the graver 
For bearing a nation's trust secure ; 
And he, he thinks of the Heart, be- 
side, 
Which broke for Italy^ failing to save 
her. 
And pining away by Oporto's tide. 
Is it not so, Cavoiir, 
That he thinks of his vow on that royal 
pall, 
This king of us all ? 



Flowers, flowers, from the flowery city ! 
Such innocent thahks for a deed so 

pure. 
As melting away for joy into flowers 
The nation invites him to enter his Pitti 
And evermore reign on this Florence 

of diirs. 
Is it not so, Cavour ? 
He'll stand where the reptiles were 
used to crawl. 
This King of us all. 



Grave as the manner of noble men is-^ 
The deed unfinished will weigh on 

the doer : 
And, barmg his head to those crape- 
veiled flags, 
He bows to the grief of the South and 
Venice. 
— Let's riddle the last of the yellow 

to rags. 
And swear by Cavour 
That the King shall reign where op- 
pressors fall. 
True King of us all. 



THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO 
CASTRUCANI. 

* Questa e per me. '^-Victor Ehanuki,. 



When Victor Emanuel, the King, 
Went down to his Lucca that day, 

The people, each vauntmg the thing 
As he gave it, gave all things away 
In a burst of fierce gratitude, say. 

As they tore out their hearts for the 
king. 



Gave the green forest-walk on the wall. 
With the Apennine blue through the 
trees : 
Gave palaces, churches and all 
The great pictures which burn out of 

these ; 
But the eyes of the King teemed to 
freeze 
As he glanced Upon ceiling and wall, 



• Good,' said the King as he past. 

Was he cold to the arts ? or else coy 
To possession ? or crossed at the last. 

Whispered some, by the vote in 
Savoy ? 

Shout ! — love him enough for his joy I 
' Good,' said the King as he past. 

IV. 

He, travelling the whole day through 
flowers, 
And protesting amenities, found, 
At Pistoia, betwixt the two showers 
Of red rose.s, 'the Orphans' {re- 
nowned 
As the heirs of Puccini) who wound 
With a sword through the crowd and the 
flowers. 



' Tis the sword of Castruccio, O King ! 
In old strife of intestine hate 

Very famous. Accept what we bring. 
We, who cannot be sons by our fate. 
Tendered citizens by thee of late, 

And endowed with a country and King. 



SUMMING UP IN ITALY. 



' Read :— Puccini has willed that this 
sword 
(Which once made in an ignorant 
feud 
Many orphans) remain in our ward 
Till some patriot its pure civic blood 
Wipe away in the toe's and make 
good, 
In delivering the land by the sword.* 

vit. 
Then the King exclaimed, 'This is for 
me !' 
And he dashed out his sword on the 
hilt. 
While his blue eye shot fire openly 
And his heart overboiled till it spilt 
A hot prayer, — God, the rest as thou 
wilt ! 
But grant me this I^-this is for me /' 



O Victor Emanuel, the King, 

The sword be for tkee, and the deed. 

And naught for the alien next spring, 
Naught for Hapsburg and Bourbon 

agreed ; 
But, for us, a great Italy freed. 

With a hero to head us, . . our King. 



SUMMING UP IN ITALY. 
(inscribed to intelligent publics out 

OF IT.) 



Observe how it will be at last. 

When our Italy stands at full stature, 
A year ago tied down so fast 

That the cord cut the quick of her 
nature ! 
You'll honor the deed and its scope. 

Then, in logical sequence upon it. 
Will use up the remnants of rope 

By hanging the men who have done it. 



The speech in the Commons which hits 
you 



A sketch off, how dungeons must 
feel,— 
The official dispatch which commits you 
From stamping out groans with your 
heel, — 
Suggestions in journal or book for 

Good efforts, — are praised ... as is 
meet : 
But what in this World can men look 
for. 
Who only achieve and complete? 



True, you've praise for the fireman, who 
sets his 
Brave face to the axle of the flame. 
Disappears in the smoke and then 
fetches 
A babe down, or idiot that's lame, — 
For the boor even, who rescues through 
pity 
A sheep from the brute who would 
kick it : 
But saviours of nations ! — 'tis pretty, 
And doubtful : they 7>tay be so 
wicked I 



Azeglio, Farini, Mamiani, 

Ricasoli, — doubt by the dozen ! — 
here's 
Pepoli too, and Cipriani, 

Imperial cousins and cogeners ; 

Arese, Laiatico, courtly 

Of manners, if stringent of mouth. 
Garibaldi — we'll come to him shortly, 

(As soon as he ends in the south.) 



Napoleon,— as strong as ten armies. 

Corrupt as seven devils, — a fact 
You accede to, then seek where the 
harm is 

Drained off from the man to his act. 
And find ... a free nation. Suppose 

Some hell-brood in Eden's sweet 
greenery. 
Convoked for creating ... a rose ! — 

Would it suit the infernal machinery \ 



Cavour, — to the despot's desire. 



Who his own thought so craftily mar- 
ries. 
What is he but just a thin wire 

For conducting the hghtning from 
Paris ? 
Yes, write down the two as compeers. 
Confessing {you would not permit a 
iie) 
He bore up his Piedmont ten years 
Till she suddenly smiled and was 
Italy. 



And the King, with that " stain on his 
'scutcheon "* 
Savoy ... as the calumny runs ! 
If it be not his blood, — with his clutch 
on 
The sword, and his face to the guns. 
O first where the batlie-storm gathers, 

O loyal of hearts on the throne. 
Let those keep the 'graves of their 
fathers,' 
Who quail, in the nerve, from their 
own ! 



For thee: — through the dim Hades- 
portal 
The dream of a voice, — ' Blessed thou 
Who hast made all thy race thrice im- 
mortal ! 
No need of the sepulchres now ! 
Left to Bourbons and Hapsburgs, who 
fester 
Above-ground with worm-eaten souls. 
While the ghost of some poor feudal 
jester 
Before them strews treaties in holes.' 



— But hush ! — am I dreaming a poem 

Of Hades, heaven, justice? — not I. 
I began too far off. in my proem. 

With what men believe and deny. 
And, on earth, whatsoever the meed is, 

(To sum us as thoughtful reviewers,) 
The moral of every great deed is 

The virtue of slandering the doers. 



! DIpIn 



si>oii(leuce. 



' DIED . . . 

{The Times' OhUrmrij.) 



What shall we add now ? He is dead. 

And I who praise and you who blame. 

With wash of words across his name. 

Find suddenly declared instead — 

' On Sunday, third of August, dead !' 



Which stops the whole we talked to-day. 
I, quickened to a plausive glance 
At his large general tolerance 
By common people's narrow way. 
Stopped short in praising. Dead, they 
say. 



And you, who had just put in a sort 
Of cold deduction — ' rather, large 
Through weakness of the continent 
marge. 
Than greatness of the thing contained' — 
Broke off. Dead ! — there, you stoo-i 
restrained. 

IV. 

As if we had talked in following one 
Up some long gallery. ' Would you 

choose 
-•Vud air like that? The gait is 
loose — 
Or noble.' Sudden in the sun 
An oubliette winks. Where is he ? 



Dead. Man's ' I was ' by God's ■ I am' — 
All hero-worship comes to that. 
High heart, high thought, high fame, 
as flat 
As a gravestone. Bring your jfacei 

jam — 
The epitaph's an epigram. 



Dead. There's an answer to arrest 
All carping. Dust's his natural 

place ; 
He'll let the flies buzz round his face 
And though you slander, not protest ' 
— From such an one, e.xact the Best I 



A FORCED RECRUIT. 



Opinions gold or brass are null. 
We chuck our flattery or abuse, 
Called Caesar's due, as Charon's 
dues, 
V the teeth of some dead sage or fool, 
To mend the grinning of a skull. 

VIII. 

Be abstinent in praise and blame. 

The man's still mortal, who stands 
first. 

And mortal only, if last and worst. 
Then slowly lift so frail a fame, 
Or softly drop so poor a shame. 



A FORCED RECRUIT AT SOI.- 
FERINO. 



In the ranks of the Austrian you found 
him ; 

He died with his face to you all : 
Yet bury him here where around him. 

You honor your bravest that fall. 



Venetian, fair-featured and slender. 
He lies shot to death in his youth. 

With a smile on his lips over-tender 
For any mere soldier's dead mouth. 



No stranger, and yet not a traitor ! 

Though alien the cloth on his breast. 
Underneath it how seldom a greater 

Young heart, has a shot sent to rest ! 



By your enemy tortured and goaded 
To march with them, stand in their 
file, 

His musket (see !) never was loaded — 
He facing your guns with that smile. 



As orphans yearn on their mothers. 
He yearned to your patriot bands, — 

'Let me die for one Italy, brothers, 
If not in your ranks, by your hands ! 



' Aim straightly, fire steadily ; spare me 
A ball in the body, which may 

Deliver my heart here and tear me 
This badge of the Austrian away.' 



So thought he, so died lie this morning. 

What then ? many others have died. 
Ay — but easy for men to die scorning 

The death-stroke, who fought side by 
side ; 



One tricolor floating above them ; 

Struck down mid triumphant acclaims 
Of an Italy rescued to love them. 

And brazen the brass with their names. 



But he — without witness or honor, 

Mi.xed, shared in his country's regard. 

With the tyrants who march in upon 
her — 
Died faithful and passive : 'twas hard. 



'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction 
Cut off" from the guerdon of sons, 

With most filial obedience, conviction. 
His soul kissed the lips of her guns. 



That moves you ? Nay, grudge not to 
show it. 

While digging a grave for him here. 
The others who died, says our poet. 

Have glory : let him have a tear. , 



GARIBALDI. 



He bent his head upon his breast 
Wherein his lion-heart lay sick : — 
' Perhaps we are not ill-repaid — 

Perhaps this is not a true test ; 

Perhaps that was not a foul trick ; 
Perhaps none wronged, and none be- 
trayed. 



ONLY A CURL. 



' Perhaps the people's vote which here 
United, there may disunite, 
And both be lavvtul as they think. 

Perhaps a patriot statesman, dear 

For chartering nations, can with right 
Disfranchise those who hold the ink. 



' Perhaps men's wisdom is not craft ; 
Men's greatness, not a selfish greed ; 
Men's justice, not the safer side. 
Perhaps even jvomen when they laugh- 
ed. 
Wept, thanked us that the land was 

freed. 
Not wholly (though they kissed us) 
lied. 



•,Verhaps no more than this we meant. 
When up at Austria's guns we flew 
And spiked them with a cry apiece, 

' Italia .'" — Yet a dream was sent . . 
The little house my father knew 
The olives and the palms of Nice.' 



He paused, and drew his sword out 
slow, — 
Then pored upon the blade intent 
As if to read some written thing : 

While many murmured, ' He will go 
In that despairing sentiment 
And break his sword before the King.' 



He pouring still upon the blade 

His large lid q\iiveiej, something fell. 
' Perhaps,' he said, ' I was not born 

With such fine brains to treat and trade. 
And if a wom.an knew it well 
Her falsehood only meant her scorn. 



Yet through Varese's cannon .smoke 
My eye saw clear : men feared this 

man 
At Como, where his sword couU deal 
Death's protocol at every stroke. 

And now . . the drop there, scarcely 

can 
Impair the keenness of the steel. 



' So man and sword may have their use ; 

And if the soil beneath my foot 

In valor's act is forfeited, 
I'll strike the harder, take my dues 

Out nobler, and the loss confute 

From ampler heavens above my head. 



' My King, King Victor, I am thine ! 
So much Nice-dust as what I am 
(To make our Italy) must cleave. 

Forgive that.' — Forward with a sign 
He went. — You've seen the telegram 1 
Palermo's taketi, we believe. 



ONLY A CURL. 



Friends of faces unknown and a land 

Unvisited over the sea. 
Who tell me how lonely you stand. 
With a single gold curl in the hand 

Held up to be looked at by me ! 



While you ask me to ponder and say 

What a father and mother can do. 
With the bright yellow locks put away 
Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay. 

Where the violets press nearer than 
you : — 

III. 
Shall I speak like a poet, or run 

Into weak woman's tears for relief? 
Oh, children ! I never lost one. 
But my arm's round my own little son. 

And Love knows the secret of Grief. 



And I feel what it must be and is 

When God draws a new angel so 
Through the house of a man up to His, 
With a murmur of music you miss. 
And a rapture of light you forego. 

V. 
How you think, staring on at the door 
Where the face of your angel flashej 



A P'lEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAAfPAGJVA. 



That its brightness, familiar before. 
Burns off from you ever the more 

For the dark of your sorrow and sin. 



you 



' God lent him and takes him, 

sigh . . . 
— Nay, there let me break with your 

pain. 
God's generous in giving, say I, 
And the thing which He gives, I deny 
That He can ever take back agam. 



He gives what He gives. I appeal 

To all who bear babes ! In the hour 
When the vail of the body we feel 
Rent round us, while torments reveal 
The motherhood's advent in power ; 

vin. 
And the babe cries, — have all of us 
known 
By apocalypse (God bemg there. 
Full in nature !) ihe child '\sour oiun, — 
Life of life, love of love, moan of 
moan, 

Through all changes, all times, every- 
where. 



He's ours and forever. Believe, 

O father !--0 mother, look back 
To the first love's assurance ! To give 
Means, with God, not to tempt or de- 
ceive 
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. 



He gives what He gives : be content. 
He resumes nothing given, — be sure. 
, God lend ? — where the usurers lent 
I In Hii temple, indignant he went 

j And scourged a.vay all those impure. 



He lends not, but gives to the end. 

As He loves to the end. If it seem 
That he draws back a gift, comprehend 
'Tii to add to it rather . . . amend, 
And linibh it up to your dream, — 



Or keep ... as a mother may toys 
Too costly though given by herself. 
Till the room shall be stiller from noise, 
And the children more fit for .such joys. 
Kept over their heads on the shelf. 



So look up, friends ! You who indeed 
Have possessed in your house a sweet 
piece 
Of the heaven which men strive for, 

must need 
Be more earnest than others are, speed 
Where they loiter, persist where they 
cease. 



You know how one angel smiles there. 

Then courage ! 'Tis easy for you 
To be drawn by a single gold hair 
Of that curl, from earth's storm and 
despair 

To the safe place above us. Adieu ! 



A VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN 
CAMPAGNA. 1861. 

I. 

Over the dumb campagna sea. 

Out in the offing through mist and 
rain, 
St. Peter's church heaves silently 
Like a mighty ship in pain. 
Facing the tempest with struggle and 
strain. 



Motionless waifs of ruined towers, 
Soundless breakers of desolate land! 

The sullen surf of the mist devours 
That mountain range upon eitheb 

hand. 
Eaten away from its outline grand. 



And over the dumb campagna sea 
Where the ship of the Church heave* 
on to wreck. 



PARTING LOVERS. 



Alone and silent as God must be 
The Christ walks ! — Ay, but Peter's 
neck 
Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck. 



Peter, Peter, if such be thy name, 
Now leave the ship for another to 
steer. 
And proving thy faith evermore the 
same 
Come forth tread out through the 

dark and drear. 
Since He who walks on the sea is 
here ! 



Peter, Peter ! — he does not speak — 
He is not as rash as in old Galilee. 

Safer a ship though it toss and leak. 
Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea ! 
And he's got to be round in the girth, 
thinks he. 



Peter, Peter ! — he does not stir — 

His nets are heavy with silver fish ; 
He reckons his gains, and is keen to 
infer, 
. ' The broil on the shore, if the Lord 

should wish — 
But the sturgeon goes to Caesar's dish.' 



Peter, Peter, thou fisher of men, 

Fisher of fish wouldst thou live in- 
stead — 
Haggling for pence with the other Ten, 
Cheating the market at so much a 

head, 
Gripmg the Bag of the traitor Dead ? 



At the triple crow of the Gallic cock 
Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine 
eyes be dazed . 
What bird comes next in the tempest 
shock ? 
. . Vultures ! See — as when Romulus 

gazed — 
To inaugurate Rome for a world 
amazed ! 



PARTING LOVERS. 



I LOVE thee, I love thee, Giulio ! 

Some call me cold, and some demure, 
And if you have ever guessed that so 

1 loved thee . . . well ; the proof was 
poor. 

And no one could be sure. 



Before thy song (with shifted rhymes 
To suit my name) did 1 undo 

The Persian ? If it moved sometimes. 
Thou hast not seen a hand push 

through 
A flower or two. 



My mother listening to my sleep 

Heard nothing but a sigh at night,— 

The short sigh rippling on the deep, — 
When hearts run out of breath and 

signt 
Of men, to God's clear light. 



When other; named thee, .... thought 
thy broivs 
Where straight, thy smile was ten- 
der, ... ' Here 
He comes between the vineyard- 
rows ! ' — 
I said not ' Ay,' nor waited. Dear, 
To feel thee step too near. 



J left such things to bolder girls, 

Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, 
When that Clotilda thought her curls 

Held both thinj eyes in hers one day, 

I marvelled, let me say. 



I could not try the woman's trick : 
Between us straightway fell the blii'ii. 

Which kept me separate, blind, and 
sick. 
A wind came with thee in a flish, 
As blown through Horeb's bush. 



J28 



MOTHER AND POET. 



Gut now that Italy invokes 

Her young men to go forth and chase 
The foe or perish, — nothing chokes 

My voice, or drives me from the 
place ; 

I look thee in the face. 



I love thee ! it is understood, 

Confest ; I do not shrink or start : 

No blushes : all my bcdy's blood 
Has gone to greaten this poor heart, 
That, loving, we may part. 



Our Italy invokes the youth 

To die if need be. Still there's room. 

Though earth is strained with dead, in 
truth. 
Since twice the lilies were in bloom 
They have not grudged a tomb. 



A.nd many a plighted maid and wife 
And mother, who can say since then 

'My country,' cannot say through life 
' My son,' ' my spouse,' ' my flower 

of men,' 
And not weep dumb again. 



Heroic males the country bears. 

But daughters give up more than sons. 

Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares 
You flash your .souls out with the guns 
And take your Heaven at once 1 



fiut we, — we empty heart and home 
Ot life's life, love ! we bear to think 

Vou're gone, . . to feel you may not 
come. 
To hear the door-latch stir and click. 
Yet no more you, . . nor sink. 



Dear God ! when Italy is one 
And perfected from bound to bound, 

Suppose (for my share) earth's undone 
My one grave in't ! as one small 

wound 
May kill a man, 'tis found. 



What then ? If love's delight must end. 
At least we'll clear its truth from 
fl.iws. 
I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend ! 
Now take my sweetest without a 

pause. 
To help the nation's cause. 



And thus of noble Italy 

We'll both be worthy. Let her show 

The future how we made her free. 
Not sparing life, nor Giulio, 
Nor this . . this heart-break. 



MOTHER AND POET. 

iTuriu— After news from fiaeta. tS61.) 



Dead! one of them shot by the sea in 
the east. 
And one of them shot in the west by 
the sea. 
Dead ! both my boys ! When you s-t 
at the feast 
And are wanting a great song for 
Italy free. 
Let none look at 7iie ! 



Yet I was a poetess only last year. 
And good at ray art, for a woman, 
men said. 
But this woman, this, who is agoniztd 
here. 
The east sea and west sea rhyme on 
in her head 

Forever instead. 



What art can a woman be good at? Oh 
vain ! 
What art is she good at, but hiirtiiisi 
her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a 
smile at the pain ? 
Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you wcm 
strong as you pressed, 

And / proud, by tliat test. 



MOTHER AND POET. 



IV. 

What art's for a woman ? To hold on 
her knees 
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms 
round her throat 
Cling, strangle a little ! To sew by de- 
gree-. 
And 'broider the long clothes and neat 
little coat ! 
To dream and to dote. 



To teach them ... It stings there. / 
made them indeed 
Speak plain the word 'country.' / 
taught them, no doubt. 
That a coini try's a thing men should 
die for at need. 
/ prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out. 



And when their eyes flashed . . ' O my 
beautiful eyes ! 
I e.xulted ! nay, let them go forth at 
the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then 
the surprise. 
When one sits quite alone ! Then one 
weeps, then one kneels ! 
— God ! how the house feels ! 



At first happy news came, in gay letters 
moiled 
With my kisses, of cam,p-lifeandglory 
and how 
They both loved me, and soon, coming 
home to be spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from 

my brow 
With their green-laurel bough. 



Then was triumph at Turin. ' Ancona 
was free !' 
And some one came out of the cheers 
in the street. 
With a face pale as stone, to say some- 
thing to me. 
— My Guido was dead ! — I fell down 
at his feet. 

While they cheered in thestreet. 



I bore it — friends soothed me : my grief 
looked .sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- 
mained 
To be leant on and walked with, recall- 
ing the time 
When the first grew immortal, while 
both of us strained 
To the height he had gained. 



And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, 
more strong. 
Writ now but in one hand. ' I was 
not to faint. 
One loved me for two , . . would be 
with me ere long : 
And 'Viva Italia '/^^ died for, our 
saint. 

Who forbids our complaint. 

XI. 

My Nanni would add ' he was .safe, and 
aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls 
. . . was imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what I 
could bear. 
And how 'rwas impossible, quite dis- 
possessed. 

To live on for the rest.' 



On which without pai:se up the tele- 
graph line 
Swept smoothly the next news from 
Gaeta : — Skat. 
Tell his mother. Ah, ah, — ' his,' ' their' 
mother : not ' mine.' 
No voice says ' my mother ' again to 
me. What ! 

Vou think Guido forgot? 



Are sonis straight so happy that, dizzy 

with Heaven, 
They drop earth's affection, conceive 

i7ot of woe ? 
I think not. Themselves were too lately 

forgiven 



NATURE'S REMORSES. 



Through that Love and Sorrow which 
reconciled so 

The Above and Below. 



O Christ of the seven wounds, who 
lool^'dst through the dark 
To the face of Thy mother ! consider, 
I pray, 
How we common mothers stand deso- 
late, mark. 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die 
with eyes turned away. 
And no last word to say ! 



Both boys dead ! but that's out of na- 
ture. We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house 
must always keep one, 
Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a 
wail, 
An(^ when Italy's made, for what 
end is it done 

If we have not a son ? 



Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, what 
then 1 
When the fair wicked queen sits no 
more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls 
out of men 1 
When your guns of Cavalli with final 
retort 

Have cut the game short, — 



When Venice and Rome keep their new 
jubilee. 
When your flag takes all heaven for 
its white, green, and red. 
When yoii h.ive your country from 
mountain to sea. 
When King Victor has Italy's crown 
on his head, 
(And I have my dead,) 

XVIII. 

What then ? Do not mock me ? Ah, 
ring your bells low. 
And bum your lights faintly. My 
country is there, 



Above the star pricked by the last peak 
of snow. 
My Italy's there — with my brave civic 
Pair, 

To disfranchise despair. 



Forgive me. Some women bear chil- 
dren in strength. 
And bite back the cry of their pain in 
self-scorn. 
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring 
us at length 
Into wail such as this ! — and we sit on 
forlorn 
When the man-child is born. 



Dead ! — one of them shot by the sea in 
the west 1 
And one of them shot in the east by 
the sea ! 
Both! both my boys ! — If in keeping 
the feast 
Vou want a great song for your Italy 
free. 

Let none look at 7ne .' 



NATURE'S REMORSES. 

KOMK, 1S6I. 



Her soul was bred by a throne, and fed 
From the sucking-bottle used in her 
race 
On starch and water (for mother's 
milk 
Which gives a larger growth instead) 
And, out of the natural libeial grace. 
Was swaddled away in violet silk. 



And young and kind, and royally blind. 
Forth she stepped from her palace- 
door 

On three-piled carpet of comppK 
ments. 
Curtains of incense drawn by the wind 
In between her for evermore 
And daylight issues of events. 



NATURE'S REMORSES. 



53' 



On she drew, as a queen might do. 
To meet a Dream of Italy, — 

Of magical town and musical wave. 
Where even a god, his amulet blue 
Of shining sea, in an ecstasy 

Dropt and forgot in a nereid'scave. 



Down she goes, as the soft wind blows. 
To live more smoothly than mortals 
can. 
To love and to reign as queen and 
wife. 
To wear a crown that smells of a rose. 
And still, with a sceptre as light as a 
fan. 
Beat sweet time to the song of life. 



What is this? As quick as a kiss 

Falls the smile from her girlish mouth ! 
The lion-people has left its lair. 
Roaring along her garden of bliss. 

And the fiery underworld of the South 
Scorched a way to the upper air. 



And a fire-stone ran in the form of a 
man, 
Burningly. boundingly, fatal, and fell. 
Bowling the kingdom down ! Where 
was the king '! 
She had heard somewhat, since life be- 
gan. 
Of terrors on earth and horrors in hell. 
But never, never, of such a thing ! 



You think she dropped when her dream 
was stopped. 
When the blotch of Bourbon blood 
inlay, 
Lividly rank, her new lord's cheek? 
Not so. Her high heart overtopped 
The royal part she had come to play. 
Only the men in that hour were 
weak. 



And twice a wife by her ravaged life. 
And twice a queen by her kingdom 
lost. 



She braved the shock and the 
counter-shock 
Of hero and traitor, bullet and knife. 
While Italy pushed, like a vengeful 
ghost. 
That son of the cursed from Gaeta's 
rock. 



What will ye give her, who could not 
deliver, 
German Princesses ? A laurel-wreath 
All over-scored with your signatures, 
Graces, Serenities, Highne^es ever ? 
Mock her not, fresh from the truth of 
Death, 
Conscious of dignities higher than 
yours. 



What will ye put in your casket shut. 
Ladies of Paris, in sympathy's name ? 
Guizot's daughter, what have you 
brought her? 
Withered immortelles, long ago cut 
For guilty dynasties perished in shame. 
Putrid to memory, Guizot's daugh- 
ter ? 



Ah poor queen ! so young and so serene ! 
What shall we do for her, now hope's 
done. 
Standing at Rome in these ruins 
old. 
She too a ruin and no more a queen ? 
Leave her that diadem made by the 
sun, 
Turning her hair to an innocent 
gold. 



Ay ! bring close to her, as 'twere a rose, 
to her. 
Yon free child from an Apennine city 
Singing for Italy, — dumb in the 
place ! 
Something like solace, let us suppose, to 
her 
Given, in that homage of wonder and 
pity. 
By his pure eyes to see her beautiful 
face. 



THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 



Nature, excluded, savagely brooded. 
Ruined all queendom and dogmas of 
state, — 
Then in reaction remorseful and 
mild, 
Rescues the womanhood, nearly eluded. 
Shows her what's sweetest in woman- 
ly fate- 
Sunshine from Heaven, and the 
eyes of a child. 



THE KING'S GIFT. 



Teresa, ah, Teresita ! 
Now what has the messenger brought 

her. 
Our Garibaldi's youngest daughter, 

To make her stop short in her singing? 
Will she not once more repeat a 
Verse from that hymn of our hero's. 

Setting the souls of us ringing ? 
Break off the song where the tear rose ? 
Ah, I'eresita t 



A young thing, mark, is Teresa ; 
Her eyes have caught fire, to be sure, in 
'hiiat necklace of jewels from Turin, 
Till blind their regard to us men is. 
Rit still she remembers to raise a 
Shy look at her father, and note, 

. . . ' Could she smg on as well about 
Venice ; 
Vet wear such a frame at her throat ? 
Decide for Teresa.' 



Teresa, ah, Teresita .' 
His right hand has passed on her head. 
• .'Vccept It, my daughter,' he said ; 

• Ay, wear it, true child of ihy mother 
Then sing, till all start to their feet, a 
New verse even bolder and freer! 

King Victor's no king like another. 
But verily noble as we are, 
Child, Teresita I' 



THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 

[the last poem.] 
Rome, May, t^bi. 



' Now give us lands where olives grow ' 

Cried the North to the South, 
' Where the sun with a golden mouth 

can blow 
Blue bubbles of grapes down a vineyard 
row ! ' 
Cried the North to the South. 

'Now give us men from the .sunless 
plain.' 
Cried the South to the North, 
' By need of work in the snow and the 

rain 
Made strong, and brave by familiar 
pain ! ' 
Cried the South to the North. 



' Give lucider hills and intenser seas ' 

Said the North to the South, 
' Since ever by symbols and bright de- 
grees 
Art, childlike, climbs to the dear Lord's 
knees.' 
Said the North to the South. 

' Give strenuous souls for belief and 
prayer.' 
Said tlie South to the North, 
' That stand in the dark on the lowest 

-Stair, 
While affirming of God, " He is cer- 
tainly there,"' 
Said the South to the North. 



'Vet, oh. for the skies that are sol"tcr 

and higher ! ' 
Sighed the North to the South. 
' For the flowers that blaze, and the 

trees that aspire 



THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 



And the insects made of a song or a 
fire! ' 
Sighed the North to the South. 



"And oh, for a seer, to discern the 

same ! ' 
Sighed the South to the North, 
'—For a poec's tongue oi toaptismal 

flame. 



To call the tree and the flower by iti 
name ! ' 
Sighed the South to the North. 



The Nortli sent therefore a man of meti 

As a grace to the South, — 
.'Vnd thus to Rome, came Andersen. 
' — Alas, but must you take hnn 
again ? ' 

&ud the South to the North. 







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